


Notches (Mchanzo)

by Kimisamsa



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 1870s, A classic western tell, Alternate Universe - Western, Blackwatch, Bottom Hanzo, Bottom McCree, Drinking & Talking, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Gambling, Honestly they just love each other, I couldn't find any other real westerns for the Mchanzo fandom, I did way too much research for this, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Slow Burn, Smoking, So here's my tribute to, Swearing, Top Hanzo Shimada, Top McCree, Violence, historical fiction - Freeform, outlaw McCree, underworld Hanzo, written from just Mccree's perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17570075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimisamsa/pseuds/Kimisamsa
Summary: Keep Moving. Never stay long enough in once town to get acquainted. Keep to yourself. Never make friends.Jesse Mccree lived by the gunman's code. It was all that kept him safe as he tracked down his friends' killers, and marking their deaths with a notch in his gun - A beautiful Schofield .45 he'd named peacekeeper. He swore himself to a life dedicated solely to that cause, and to ride alone. But life has a funny way of dealing you different cards... When a beautiful man shows up in the town of the man Mccree is tracking to kill, his plans are forced to change.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The woman sitting in the driver's seat of the small Conestoga wagon shielded her eyes from the glaring sun to look further up the path. There was a dust cloud forming in the distance, far too small to be more than just one horse, allowing her shoulders to relax from their tensed position. She could handle one outlaw if needed. She was a tall slender woman in about her thirties, blond hair tied back and tucked into her bonnet to shield her face from the harsh sun and biting sting of the sand blowing winds. There was strength in the firm square to her shoulders and her small hands- red and roughened by hard work- shifted their tight hold on the leather reins, tying them off to the wagon’s brake handle. The nameless river her company had been following, which cut a deep channel across the flatland now slowed to a tan ribbon of muddy water. A mile or so down the stream several cottonwoods lifted their branches, now near depleted of their soft white seeds for which they were named and swayed gently in the welcomed breeze.

The prairie lay unmarked and flat in every direction, even the trees in their group felt lonely in its vastness. The woman reached up to swipe away a strand of golden hair from her sweating brow, the thought of her past dwellings reaching her mind for what seemed like the thousandth time. She wondered if they should have even left- stayed with the endless harassment for her profession and stayed with familiarity. Her partner, now stirring from the back of the wagon and rousing her from her thoughts would snidely remark, ‘better the devil you know than the devil you don’t?’

  
“Good morning, Moria,” The woman at the driver's seat remarked dryly receiving a grunt in reply.

“Why’s the wagon stopped?” A red head with roughly mused hair slowly hauled themselves up, groaning against the bright sun, “We can’t possibly be making camp.” Their voice was rich and Irish despite the heaviness from just waking.

“No, due to your drinking last night,” The woman began.

“Oh come off it Angela.” Moria waved their hand and crawled next to the blond who’s back snapped stiff in indignation.

“I will not.” Angela stuck up her nose, “you reak.”

“The whole camp was in on it. It was just a bit of bonding.” Moria’s entire attitude towards the situation irked Angela, the woman feeling as though she might burst in that moment from their pure arrogance.

“We’re behind now because of this! I couldn’t keep up!” Angela’s blue eyes began to water, tears cutting through the grim built up upon her fair skin. “I don’t know if we can make it to the safety of camp b-by-”

Moria’s previously aloof attitude melted at the woman’s tears, “A-Ah Angela..” They turned towards the tear stricken woman and gently brushed her cheek with long fingers, “It will be fine. Now that I’m awake we’ll make it in time. Give me the reins!” Moria took up the leather straps and gave the horse’s a flick to urge them forward towards the sloping bank. It seemed to be a good place to cross, the waters murky but slow.

The two large Percherons snorted and flicked their tails at their slow entrance into the river. “Easy now,” The driver urged, giving another flick at their hesitance. The river’s babbles were soothing, the splashing of clear waters against the sweaty horses and sides of the wagon meaning progress.

Suddenly, the bay mare went under the water which was only supposed to be to the horses bellies, pulling down the cart and making it’s companion loose footing. The other horse scrambled for footing against the slippery

“Damn it!” Moria shouted, jerking the reins back, trying to get the horses to sync their movements. Without unity of the team, their cart began to tilt, the wheel sliding further into the hole.

“Ease up the reins!” Angela’s voice was shrill, reaching to take control of the reins.

“Shut up woman! Goddamn beasts!” At the moment the woman leaned forward, Moria’s arms tugged back again on the leather straps, forearm clashing with the woman’s cheek. The blond gave a small cry and withdrew, hand pressed to the red mark, face ashened.

The horses bayed and in a frenzy tried to break loose their yoke. Their refusal to listen to their master only caused the cart to further sink, once seemingly safe waters now lapping over the side, “The supplies-” Angela sobbed into her hands. At this rate, they would lose everything; the food, medical supplies, their fortune, their hopes for a new life- all gone within minutes to the river.

It was near when the cart was close to tipping- the promised angle of doom that left Angela holding on with white knuckles as the covered Conestoga jerked and creaked- then a voice entered with Moria’s yellings.

“Ease the reins and pull left!” A man, saddled on his own horse fought down the two rearing beasts, having rode up on horseback, voice calming yet commanding as it spoke to both rider and the horses he fought to control. He soothed down the horses, voice unexcited as he crooned out what must have been another language. “Easy now- easy- left Gotdamn or you’re gunna tip!”

  
Moria was in no position to argue. Pulling any which way hadn’t worked, and any whips or shouts only resulted in the panic that they not fought through. The stranger- a well built vaquero with dark tanned skin and a red serape draped around his shoulders- managed to get the horses to pull forward at the same time. They were still panicked, the white of their eyes showing and nostrils heaving as they followed the Vanquero’s instructions. “Ease up- there you go, forward you go, ease up.” The horse he rode encouraged with a whiny as the team pulled the sunken cart which, with each forward push made by the team, began to right and pull from the hole it had sunk into. Hooves slipped and strained against the bed of the river until the river’s flooring gave way to muck then to dry steady grounding where the team, able to find purchase, scrambled up onto the prairie.

  
Angela shuddered then gave her attention to the man who once finished soothing the horses rode up to the drivers. He rode a cream colored stallion, what breed Angelia had no idea- only that the horse was beautiful and more lean that most horses she had seen other cowboys ride. The horse moved easily and the rider sat in the saddle without effort or strain. He wore dark leather chaps that hung over brown boots. A bay worn Stetson completed his garb besides the red serape partially hiding the dark gun belt. Within it’s holster was a heavy handed revolver that laid on his left hand thigh, easy for the man to quickly draw with his right. His shoulders were broad, his nose prominent and two brown eyes regarded the woman evenly. His lips wore the same neutral expression, framed by a groomed chestnut beard, small fleckings of grey streaking throughout. This discovery nearly shocked Anglea for the man’s charming face held no lines of age, meaning he had to have been near thirties no more than forty.  
The man was the very picture of the west- Strong, even, hard working and rugged, and if Angelia hadn’t known herself better she figured she might have thought to blush at his imposing figure.

  
“I was doing my best,” Moria grumbled, regarding the man as though his saving them had made matters worse.

“Doin’ your best to tip yer wagon.” The man’s brows raised up into his hat and his lips turned to a frown. “What in hell's blazes were you thinkin’ crossing there? Didn’t you see the markers at the ford?”

Moria’s lips curled up into a snarl, “No, otherwise we wouldn’t have had the trouble we did!”

“Moria!” Angela shot at her partner in shock, placing a hand on their leg and looking back towards the stranger, “Thank you sir- for your help. My name is Angela Zieglar- this is Moria O’Deorain.” She gestured to the latter.

The man gave a small nod and a hum, removing his hat to brush back his hair. “And what brings you two out yonder? This here’s no place to be traveling alone.”

“We’re not alone- well… we weren’t alone.” Angela sighed. “We were traveling to the town of Gibraltar with several other wagons.”

“You ain’t too far then.”

The two passengers on the cart shared a look of relief, “Truly?”

The man nodded, fishing into his breast pocket and pulling out a cigar. He then took one look at it’s soggy covering and returned it with a sigh, “It’s only about a day and a half ride out.”

“Then it’s possible the party might just leave without us.” Moria rubbed their chin, eyes narrowing at the thought.

“They wouldn’t!” Angela protested, relief turning into fear once more. “Everyone know that we’d be preyed upon! We’re just doctors- they wouldn’t!”

The man scratched at his beard, inwardly groaning, “I’d… be happy t’ make sure you get back to yer party fine… But I ain’t about to do it for free.”  
Angela sat up a bit more straight in the seat, “We don’t have much money sir, but we’d be happy to make a trade. We have tonics and-!” Suddenly she sprung up, nearly startling the horses as she did so and jumped into the back where their supplies where. “Oh god! We have to get these dried! Moria, give me a hand! Mr- what did you say your name was?” Angela poked her head out from behind the canvas. The stranger then seemed to hesitate under her large blue eyes.

“James Cornwall,” He touched the brim of his hat.

“Wonderful Mr. Cornwall,” Angela chuckled, “You… seem familiar Mr. Cornwall.”

James tensed, hand lifting and hovering. Moria then chimed in with a hum, “You’re quiet right Angela.. He does.”

“Almost like a- what was his name that we saw at the rails in Pennsylvania?”

“Ah the wanted poster?”

Angela moved back inside the cart, flashing Moria a cheshire grin, “Yes, that one.” It was nearly too cruel to play with the man after he’d helped them.

“A Mr. Mccree if I recall correctly.”

This little game could easily get them both shot, but the fair doctor had a feeling that the man - now that she’d met him- had been wrongly accused of whatever had placed such a bounty on his head within that area. “But Mr. Cornwall couldn’t possibly be the famous Mr. Mccree!”

Moria could help but laugh, opening a box and beginning to check if the goods had been harmed, “No, not remotely possible.”

“Though, I must admit, it would be thrilling to meet him.” Angelia’s voice sparkled, and when she glanced over, the man’s hand had lifted from his gun and his brow was cocked.

“Then, I’ll be happy t’ help you folks.” The man who was ‘not’ Mccree, took one wary glance to the road he was on before he sucked in a breath and dismounted over to the Conestoga.

With him in the driver's seat and the two doctors busy checking their goods and doing what they could to dry what had been soaked from the river’s incident. Angela carried on light conversation with the man. Telling him about their travels, and what lead them to leaving New York in the first place. The head of sciences in the area had been damning their practices as lesser and unethical. And although the two accomplished many great things, they found it best to leave and begin their own reputation far from the already established world of medical practices in New York.

“But why all the way out here?” Not Mccree asked, having listened with intent to Angela’s story.

“There’s land to be had out here Mr. Cornwall! Where there is land people go. Besides, I have a good friend who now lives in Gibraltar and he suggested we set up our business there.”

“Ain’t that town already have a doctor?”

Angela set her jaw, “If you can call him a doctor. He’s hardly reputable! He doesn’t even have a degree.”

“Lawdy, remind me to stay off his table,” the man grinned. “Well I’m mighty excited for you folks. Can’t say I’m familiar with what’s in Gibraltar, but seems like it’s got its start.”

“Indeed Mr. Cornwall.” Angla hummed pleasantly. With night near upon them, their wagon had been checked and what needed to be dried, laying out on the boards or precariously strung up on mack shift lines within the Conestoga. The doctor’s eyes now fell upon the man’s arm at last, free to inspect it at her will from the distance.

It wasn’t the first prosthetic she’d seen before that was designed in such a fashion, with metal integrated into the skin making it look like some frankensteined piece of body. Unlike solid wood or metal which was usually what one would have should their limb be amputated, this style allowed the body part to still function. Although it required the limb to still be in some form of fixable condition. Infection or complete loss of limb and this method would be useless. Metal rods connected to bone and tendons in a very precise manner. Angelia herself had the privilege to work alongside the man who created such a thing several times, even offering her own input and knowledge of the body’s structure to better serve.

“When did you meet Torbjorn?” Angelia asked, climbing into the front seat.

The question seemed to both shock and please Not Mccree and he consciously brushed his leather gloved hand over the metal-flesh mix. “Must have been… Near five years ago? Maybe more… Man loses track of time when he’s on the road as much as I’ve been.”

“You know.. There are better solutions now. I have worked with him, several times. In fact, he’s the reason we’re coming out here.”

“You don’t say?” He gave a low whistle. “Thought he’d made shop further east!”

“He had,” Angela nodded, “Several of his children moved west with the gold rush!”

“They have any luck? Always did like him- e’en if he were a bit short tempered.”

Anglia thought it terribly kind of the gentleman to call his temper short instead of his stature. The mechanical genius was indeed an impatient one, but also a very stout man. “They have yes. They own a large portion of the mines near Gibraltar!”

“Well, it’s good t’hear the man’s doin’ just fine.” Not Mccree smiled and looked down at the arm. “I’ve been given hell for this but it’s a great deal better than havin’ no arm t’ speak of.”

“What happened to your arm anyway?” Angela leaned forward, elbows to knees and resting her dainty chin within her palms.

“S’a long story. By the looks of it, I ain’t gonna have time t’ tell it.” He lifted his metaled arm and pointed to the distance, fingers moving slowly to force the natural gesture. “Looks like that’s yer train up there.” there, following his point where several wagons, circled around a large fire.

“Ah, it would seem..” Angela’s spirits fell. Not Mccree had been such pleasant company. “Mr. Cornwall, when the rail is built here- let me and Mr. Torbjorn fix your arm. Well- improve it! The reaction between movements is slow, I owe you as much for saving our wagon.”

Not Mccree’s brow lifted, nearly disappearing into his hat, “I couldn’t possibly. But that’s mighty sweet of ya Doctor Zieglar.”

“Angela,” She corrected with a playful poke. From the back Moria stiffened and snapped the ledger they were looking through by lanterns light shut.

“Right then, don’t you think our brave cowboy friend should get going?” They narrowed mismatched eyes at both Angela and Not Mccree.

“I reckon yer right about that,” He gently slowed the horse team to a stop and pulled the brakes lever into place. “Been a pleasure, but I best be gettin’ back on the road.”

“Mr. Cornwall- why don’t you have dinner? It’s the least we could do?”

Not Mccree touched the brim of his hat and smiled, “That’s mighty kind o’ Doctor Ziegler, but I’m afraid i’ll hafta decline the generous offer.” He clucked his tongue, and the steed that had followed it’s rider along for the entirety of the journey came alongside the wagon, allowing the man to mount him. “Doctor-”

Angela’s brows furrowed, “Yes?”

“I might be takin’ you up on that offer about the arm.”

The doctor smiled, “I certainly hope you will! It would drastically improve your life Mr. Cornwall.”

Under the bush that was the man’s beard lifted a warm smile, one that was unguarded and genuine, and for once Angela knew why he was so secretive about himself, why he had to put on such a hard act. It was all merely to hide his gentleness. With him being a known dangerous man, he had to. While the law wouldn’t touch him, Angela figured there were many men who would like to prove their wit and strength against the infamous Mccree. He had to act tough and constantly be on guard. Her heart ached for the man, and as he rode off she wished she could have returned his saving act. Perhaps though- she thought- if he did return, both she and the swiss man could improve his arm and make it in such a fashion that it would be near the speed and talent of true flesh and blood. “Safe travels… Mccree.”

 

It was nearly half a year later before Angelia saw the the outlaw again. The railway had been finished for two months and the air was turning chilled. When he showed up at her door, metal arm hidden within the familiar red serape, she quickly bustled him inside, completely forgetting his false name. “Mccree!” She grinned broadly, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly before going back to the iron stove that heated the small doctor’s office and home. “Come here, get warm! It’s a bit chilly.”

“M-Ma’am..” Mccree swept his hat from his head, cheeks more rosey then just the chilled airs bite. “How’d you… how long you know? Why ain’t you screaming in fear?”

“Oh please,” Angelia laughed, going back over and pulling him over to the warmth. “Moria and I knew from the day we met you! I always trust my gut Mr. Mccree, and I am not worried that you will harm me any. Please, take a seat! I will put on something hot to drink. Tea or Coffee?”

“Anything is fine ma’am..” He looked awkwardly bashful, far from the angry looking man on the posters she’d seen months ago in Pennsylvania. Mccree hung up his hat and shucked his gloves, lifting both arms to cup near the glowing stove. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology then- fer lying t’ you. Givin’ you a false instead of who I were.”

Angela paused her bustling about to look at the man properly, “You had your reasons to keep who you are secret. And secret it will stay! I have no reason to raise a fuss… Besides, given your reputation, i’m sure that if you wander around town someone is bound to know you.”

“Such is the way..” Mccree sighed, “Though, the longer I keep my head down, the more folks forget me.”

“Such is the way of progress.” Angela chuckled. The doctor much prefer tea to coffee, but made the brown drink for her guest, adding cream into their cups until the color lightened.

“Well that’d mighty kind of you,” He took the offered tea glass, fingers holding onto the delicate handle in such a fashion that made the doctor have to hide her smile behind her own cup. “Heard you got yerself a name down here.” Mccree opened conversation after the first sip of coffee washed down his throat.

“I have had many patients. Business is good in a town where many are prone to get hurt. Construction, mining- all very dangerous.”

“Oh that ain’t all I heard. Sounds like yer known as the angel of mercy ‘round these parts.”

Angela’s cheeks tinted pink with pride, “Well I don’t know if it’s well deserved.”

“Oh i’m sure it is doctor.” Mccree lifted his cup of coffee in a bit of cheers towards her. The two lapsed into comfortable silence, the fire popping and bustle of the town sounding from outside.

“You have good timing,” Anglia said after a moment.

“Yea? How’s that?”

“Torbjiorn is expected to arrive in a few days, to visit his family and pick up special ore… I suppose the gods are with you with such luck.”

Mccree chuckled and took a smug sip, “I make my own luck Doctor. Just cause I’m a lone man don’t mean I ain’t got my sources.”

“You knew?” The doctor felt her brows lifting in surprise. She knew Mccree had to be smart in some degree to avoid death for so long with such a high profile.

“I kept my ear to the ground in a way. Told you- I’d come back for that arm. Can’t afford no more to just let it be if there’s a better option out there.”  
“And there is,” She promised.

Torbjorn arrived the next day of Mccree’s visit to the doctor’s home, taking up a corner to sleep and promising not to get under foot. When no one was in the office he busied himself by keeping the fair headed doctor company, listening to her talk about whatever she fancied for hours. Moria’s visits where few between, already occupied with work within a factory developing chemical compounds though whenever they were inside Angelia’s office they looked at Mccree with eyes like a rattlesnake, stiff and ready to strike if needed. Their words where cool and dry but held underlining venom.

Mccree hadn’t quite expected Torbjorn to remember him, but the short Sweed did. He greeted Mccree with a boisterous laugh and began to go on about the success of his children, thanking him once more for the advice of where to begin to mine. Angela listened intently, thinking it was the man’s luck but now knowing that Mccree had recommended it, it solidified that he was truly a good man. With so much gold and other ores to bring in profit, no manner of law could touch him- yet here he was, staying on the low.

They replaced and refitted Mccree’s arm as promised, Torbjorn boasting for the entirety that nothing would ever compare to his rework. “The finest job I’ll ever do!” He declared to a sweat soaked Mccree, the man all but passed out from the pain of surgery. Angela had given him what she could to help, but there was nothing else to be done.

“Can you try moving it?” The doctor asked, dabbing along his brow, ensuring the patient taken care of before the bloody mess.

Both engineer and Doctor watched with bated breath as Mccree groaned and grunted for a moment. Then like magic the new hand worked- fluid and smooth as his intact flesh and blood. “Well.. I’ll be damned,” He mumbled out with a smile.

Healing was just as slow as the first time Mccree’s arm had been reconstructed. Such was the process that Torbjorn had set up the out law in his daughter’s home. There was no way they would be able to successfully hide one like him for a month while his body healed.  
Torbjorn’s daughter, Brigette, was just as hard working as her father, never found without some sort of dust or machinery oil on her person; she was significantly taller than her father, looking more like her mother’s side than the stout swiss, with a beautiful face and long brown hair. Despite her lovely appearance, the strong arms she showed with a tattoo emblazoned on her upper bicep when sleeves were rolled up high for work,shown she could easily handle herself.

Just within the time Mccree was there, he counted at least three different suitors who tried after Brigette. She heartily turned them all down. The cowboy, listening from the back thought that such might be poor for the families business- not to say the woman should give in to any man's demands- but somehow, her boisterous attitude kept that worry away, usually upselling the family brand.

Brigette made for good strong company, and with the doctors strict supervision and permission, the woman allowed Mccree to help in the back forgery, helping to regain strength to the new arm.

Although he still had to heal, eventually Mccree began to grow bold, leaving the safety that was friends and allies to the town unknown. At any time it would be possible for someone to recognize the infamous Mccree and draw on him. However, it seemed like many were either too frightened of the man’s legacy and simply made way for him, or either didn’t know or care. The West was still a wild place, but the town promised safety and civility.

Mccree enjoyed many nights in the poker halls, playing for small stakes and growing his income by the skill and luck he held. Nights not spent in the saloon where spent with the kind Doctor and Brigette. The two woman made for wonderful company, pleased to hear any tale or anecdote he had, or share their own. The doctor’s library was large, and by the end of his healing, had nearly been completely finished by Mccree.

It was in the evening, mid way through the second month of what Mccree would later refer to as his vacation from life, that trouble showed its face in the small town of Gibraltar.

The train had brought in a group of four, planning on investing in the town and it’s mines. The seemingly innocent deal held a darkness that no one could quite put their finger on. If the brewing storm which threatened black clouds on the dimming horizon and threw dust around the quiet town was any indication of the men’s misdeeds.

Sand kicked up under the red worn serape as Mccree made his way to the Saloon, beginning to spill forth it’s jaunty tunes. He hummed, eyes squinting through the dust to the storm. It didn’t sit right- the feeling. He had a feeling for a while that he should clear town soon, maybe tonight was the night.

He entered the building, lighted enough to make the large glass mirror behind the bar reflect all that happened. The space was only big enough to hold five round gambling tables, an upright piano where a man played and a beautiful woman crooned. The saloon was beginning to show signs of the new world, brass plated ceilings and imported drinks.

Slightly shaking the dust from his clothing He looked around. There were the regulars, cowpoke and towns folk he’d seen before watching cards or drinking and the mix of new. In the far corner, the four that had arrived on the train only hours before sat around with two from the town, playing a game of poker, laughing louding with a small sum of chips in front of them.

The ones Mccree could see caused him little distress, but it was their presence that meant a certain company- the fourth man with his back to Mccree- that made his blood chill and his eyes narrow.

“Scuse me,” He sauntered up to the bar keep, leaning against the polished wood and procuring a cigarillo from his breast pocket. When he lifted it to his lips, the bartender produced a match, striking it and lighting the tip. He watched with apprehension as Mccree tilted his head in thanks and took a few puffs to get it going. “Say- where’d those fellers come from.”

Mccree never scared the bartender until that moment, there was something deadly in his eyes as he watched the man who’s back they saw- short brown hair greased back and clothes well kept albeit-dusty from the travels. “Alberta- here t’ look at the mines and invest.”

“Get their names?” Mccree asked, but he already knew them, and only one he cared about. Wilton Mockbee.  
He didn't wait for an answer, pushing back from the bar and sauntering over to the table, silver spurs jingling with his slow steps. When he reached the table the dealer was about to pass out the cards, Mccree stilled him, placing his hand over the deck and looming over Wilton Mockbee who slowly glanced up; he began at the dusty boots, raked up the simple pants and paused at the six shooter, it’s handle covered in small but purposeful notches. The man’s green eyes narrowed as he looked at the gun then widened for a split moment at seeing a brass belt buckle with four letters pressed into it.

No words were passed between the two men, and the bar was beginning to still from the tension these two brought. The cards being shifted from the deck and placed onto the table seemed far too loud, but finally there were five cards sitting in front of both Mccree and Wilton Mockbee. The later of the two narrowed his eyes, slowly moving to grab his own until it was Mccree who so casually picked up his hand.

Wilton Mockbee lifted the five cards, unable to help the small smirk that tugged on the corner of his lips. Three kings, accompanied by a six of hearts and a nine of clubs. He looked up at Mccree’s impassible face, waiting a moment before plucking out the six and nine, “Two cards.” He declared and nearly laughed when Mccree tossed three on top of his own discarded two.

Smoke lazily drifted from the man’s cigarillo and collected on the brim of his hat before rolling to join the rest of the haze in the bar.

Two cards were laid before Wilton Mockbee on the green felted table and three before Mccree. Wilton looked at the cards, then glanced back up to Mccree who seemed to be studying his with little interest. It seemed like the seated man was the lucky one, and with a cocky movement he laid his hand in front of Mccree; Three kings, a ten of clubs and queen of hearts. Mccree looked at the cards on the table then glanced at the persons sitting around as though he were weighing out the odds. Smoothly he laid down his own, the winning hand; Three aces, a jack of diamonds and a queen of spades.

Wilton’s shoulder rolled back, hand slipping down to his holster as his sneer turned into a frown. “Didn’t hear what the bet was.”

Mccree took a long drag from the cigarlo and blew out a plume of the earthy smoke, regarded what was left, then snubbed it in the ashtray placed upon the table, “Yer life.” he drawled. Seconds ticked by in thick tension as glances between the four newcomers were exchanged.

Wilton’s frown twitched and he stood up from the table with his partners, near bumping chests with Mccree, wooden chair clattering to the floor. The businessman drew his revolver from the holster, only to have Mccree seize his weapon and arm and twist the man’s body as though he were a simple doll, his polished silver shooter clattering uselessly to the floor. The two scrambled for a split second and Wilton was shoved down to the card table. He reached up with a desperate hand to choke at mccree’s throat, staring with bug eyes up at the cold brown that bore into him.

His choke was weak and thrawted as a chop came to the arm, what should have been painful bone was worse by what felt like metal slamming into the side. If he survived the ordeal, he’d be sure to bruise, if not fracture. A punch was added to his jaw and before he could even cry out, Mccree seized him by the collar and drew him upright.

Wilton swung, meeting mccree’s solid block and receiving yet another countered punch that sent him stumbling backwards and doing a small roll, head over heels into a cluster of abandoned chairs. “Where’s he at, rat?” Mccree snarled, striding over as Wilton stumbled up to his feet.

He didn’t answer Mccree, instead lunging at him and swinging once more. But every punch he threw Mccree blocked and countered. Once again he was stumbling back and found his mouth tasting like copper and vision spinning.  
“Where is he, you goddamn rat?!” Mccree grabbed Wilton by the front lapels and lifted him to his jellied legs, slamming him against the bar. “You squealed on us once- and ye’ll do it again! Now tell me!”

“I don’t know!”

Mccree gave him a little jostle and spit hard to the side, voice growling, “Where is he!”

“Faircross!” Wilton cried out, cowering, “Last I hear he were in faircross setting up business!”

The swinging doors clattered, and with it Mccree heard the familiar sound of a guns hammer clicking into place. The towns small law had arrived, three men standing in front with their shotguns trailed on Mccree.  
“Now I didn’t want you leavin’ on this note.” The town’s sheriff spoke slow and grave, as though he truly regretted the situation they were all in. “But I think you know the drill, Mccree. You leave now- and I ain’t gunna turn you into the law.”

Mccree smirked, the high of fighting beginning to wear, leaving his nerves on pins and needles. He hated being stuck with a gun to his back, “Mighty kind offer, but I’m a wanted man alive or dead.”  
“I know you ain’t worth the costs they got on you Mccree… Just go before someone else who don’t know you gathers the balls.” He shifted, making room at the door.  
Mccree hauled Wilton up one last time and made a show out of straightening his vest and patting his bruised cheek, “Weren’t intendin’ on stayin’ round much longer anyway. I’ve got business prospects in Faircross.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessee Mccree is on the trail of Ewars Adamson a crooked business man from his past.

Chapter 2

Within the week’s hard travel he had seen no trail made by man. At night, just the howls from coyote, screams of night hawks and piercing green eyes from wild cats kept him company. After having spent so long within a bustling town, the solitude was welcomed. Here, with the open skies and wide ranges he felt no need to lie, to pretend to be unnecessarily hard or the strain to keep himself distant from everyone.

  
Mccree could still recall the way Angela sobbed for him when he quickly said his goodbyes. He wished she wouldn’t have cried, he wasn’t worth a single tear- him being a murdering good for nothing. He should have never let himself get close to the few back at Gibraltar. He had to pretend to not care- act as though his heart didn’t ache for the comfort of friends and those he could laugh with. He figured he was undeserving of their kindness. He was on the way to kill a man- one who was far from innocent- but blood was still going to be shed.

No. Angela should have never cried for him.

Sweat rolled down Mccree’s brow, stinging his eyes that wandered the Tonto Basin. He knew the country, having crossed it before and previously hunted buffalo when he worked under the cattleir’s pay. Here, he’d find some train of caravan’s or at least cow-punchers who might be willing to share a meal and fire. They wouldn’t know who he was- heading in the wrong direction for news of his warrant to travel, Mccree figured. He was running low on supplies, but had the money to pay for a meal. Just another two days and he’d be within reach of his objective. There was extra space for the notch he’d place after finding the man in Faircross.

  
Soon enough Mccree spied dust clouds raising up from a wagon train about ten huge. It took him several miles to find a path of the cliff where he rode down to meet them, but when he did, he hailed a young man, no more than twenty five, driving a small herd of horses and received a friendly wave in return.

  
“Howdy Texas Jack,” Mccree said, “Mind if I ride alongside?” He was all manners and smiles, elegant in the seat of his saddle.

  
“Shore can stranger,” the man returned his smile with a grin and tipped his tan stetson. His skin was peppered in sunned freckles, and his sandy brown hair kept short and swept up into his hat. His shoulders where broad but his mass smaller than Mccree’s. Evidently, the man had never put time in with roping cattle or hard steers, serving mostly as a trail guide and herding private groups of horses. “How’d you’d know my name?”

Mccree chuckled, “Always can spot a Texas Jack, know most a hundred. Where you bound?”

“Nevada an’ New mexico territories.”

Mccree hummed and nodded, “See any indians?”

The man nodded, “Yestiddy, had a brush with a few Nunsee’s.

“Loose any stoke?”

“A few hawses, shore were lucky.”

“Who’s your trail boss?”

“Wilber Fingard,” Mccree offered the man a cigarillo which he accepted with a nod.

“Where y’all from?”

The man thought nothing of the onslaught of questions, a common routine to ask such to those who passed by or rode for a few miles. “Blisstuck. Had to leave down through Devil’s stead on account of the Tucker bein’ in flood.”

  
Mccree thought about the name- Findard. He considered himself fortunate to have never run into him, but recalled the name from years working trails. Wilber Fingard, an honest worker and trail header, a real Texan. Mccree tipped his hat to the younger man in thanks and when the train halted at a brook to camp he wasted no time to circle the wagons and find the trail leader.

“Pardon me,” Mccree approached the first man he met, “Where’s your boss?”

Brown eyes regarded him from the ground, scrutinizing and cold, “Howdy thar stranger. Seen you pile off the bluff, Nunsee’s after you?”

Mccree shook his head, “No, Glad to say.”

“What’s yer handle?” His eyes narrowed, though his posture held no hostility.

“Riding nameless now-a-days. But you ought t’ know I was Cleatus Dawley’s right hand for four year’s n’ a season.”

“That right? Strong recommendation e’vn Dawley ain’t no friend o’ mine.”

“Thank ye kindly- Fingard, I assume?”

Wilber Fingard nodded his head and grinned, “you presume correctly. Tell me, think it’s true ‘bout what they say ‘bout them wantin’ posters? What with them being lies?”

Mccree’s bones warmed at the twinkle in the other man’s eyes and he let out a rumbling chuckle, “I sure believe them t’ be mostly tall tells.”

“Well, I never did trust a tenderfoot t’ tell me how t’ run my hawses. Don’t worry bout it none.”

“Thank you Fingard,” Mccree gave a gracious tip of his hat, “Mind if I ride with this caravan for a time? Mighty hungry and lonely.”

“Yer welcome to,” Wilber Fingard replied heartily, “Fact is, if them Nunsee’s catch up or we run into some rounges I’ll be damn glad you happened along. Said yer name was Sander’s wasn’t it? Wal git down and come on in!”  
Mccree dismounted, unsaddled his horse and placed his items under the nearest wagon before tenderly tending to the mare. As the evening progressed Mccree made himself useful as much as he could, several of the younger cow-pokes taking an instant shining to him when they heard him tell story of lassoing and taming his mustang in Mexico.

  
The humble workers presence was so different from the good doctors. While he appreciated her company, among these men he felt more at home. They understood the grizzly life herding cattle or moving horses was; the sweat and blood to earn so little in wage yet so much in soul. These men understood his ism’s, appreciated the blend of tobacco in his cigarlo’s and praised his roping skills.

  
Mccree was with the group of ten wagons for two days, showing them tricks he’d learned years ago and mastered, grinding into them the importance of respecting the beast which they worked and lived through. “If you can’t take it down without hurtin’ ‘em, yer better off plowing sod.” the men revired him and were eager to share their own stories around the fire. The days passed so quickly that when the group arrived at the town of Ashbrowe- one so small it consisted of a few small businesses mostly for a stop along a large journey- this town being where Mccree would have to part. He approached Wilber Fingard and swept off his hat. “Now, I reckon I owe you my life to some degree, and I know you won’t take any of my money lord knowin’ I’ve tried.”

  
Fingard laughed boisterously and shook his head, clapping Mccree on the shoulder and smiling at him as though he was his own son, despite them only being ten years difference in age. “No I won’t, and with what you’ve taught these men I would consider myself the debter.”

  
“Now that ain’t right. You brought me along with knowin’ who I were, and I’m mighty grateful.” Mccree insisted.

“You’ve proven that you’re an honest man, and what you may or may not have done- that don’t change the fact you’ve got a good heart.” Fingard lightly tapped over his red shirt where his own heart would be. “You’re a good man, and I’m grateful to know that myself.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far, but thank ye.” Mccree dipped his head and placed his hat atop the routy brown locks, “And I hope you get t’ where yer goin’ without any more loss.”

  
The man nodded, tipped his hat and took one last long look at Mccree, knowing full well that the man was considered a criminal, that turning him into the proper bounty hunter could earn him enough to settle for a comfortable life, but also knowing that should he do such he’d never sleep knowing he’d done him ill. “Godspeed.”

“And to you,” Mccree returned. He mounted his horse, side pouch now stocked with enough provisions and a new pair of clean clothing for when he should arrive into the town of Faircross and seek his man. The reminder of his mission made his gut turn unpleasantly, and for a brief moment as he road off and the sounds of the caravan heading in the opposite direction reached his ears, his heart stirred.

He thought continuously on the trail he took, far into the night as he gazed up at the stars. Perhaps he should give up his attempt to find Ewars Adamson, and lay to rest his quest for revenge. He’d seen men go mad from the wine of revenge before, and he ought to stop before he himself turned down that dark road. He missed the feeling of belonging, a feeling he didn’t know had been left empty in his heart until his time with angela and even more solidified with the trailmen. It felt good to do honest work, and although he’d miss the thrill of the chase and adrenaline that came from a heist- maybe he could turn his back and start new.

Mccree rolled over, unfocused eyes laying nowhere in particular.

He might be able to find work that would give him an honest wage- and within time, he could settle down, maybe even find a sweetheart to share a home with. They would never be able to know about his past though, the men he’d killed, the trains he’d robbed, and all the crimes he’d committed. They’d love the new Mccree- no not Mccree, that name was the outlaw, the blood spiller. Jameson- Clifton?

Mccree chuckled, slowly blinking.

“Do you really believe you could live that life?” A voice carried by the wind reached Mccree, his hair standing on end. It was as the voice always was; dark, deep, raspy and filled with chilling memory. The cowboy didn’t move, didn’t reach for his gun. He knew the voice and the visage that appeared with it.

Black and fleeting as smoke with a hovering mask like a barn owls face, it haunted him. “After everything you’ve done and seen. You’d let their kindness and memories fade?”

Mccree stared into the empty eye sockets in damn near defiance. But his fight never lasted long. The spectral always won, always spoke the truth. It was as his mother had always talked about; “spiritual visitors of the Earth, reminding us and keeping us on the path that we must take.” The memory of her lecture amidst the visit would have made him snort if not for the fear that always took over when seeing it.

“Where were you, keepin’ me on the path before I took to crime? Before I join the Deadlocks?!” Mccree tried to shout at the wisp but he knew his voice was no more than a croak.

“They took you in, treated you like family.” Mccree squeezed his eyes closed, fought against the images that welled up against his mind.

The blond farmer-turned-general-store-owner grinning at him, clapping him on the back, another man- dark hair and skin- giving him a small smile but a nod of approval, that gesture alone was more than any sum of money. Then there was the woman’s laughter- the woman who taught him more about sharp shooting and taught him to respect each life they took. So many other’s voices and faces came and went through his mind like the madding dance of a forest fire until Mccree felt his brow sweat just at their memory.

He wanted to forget it all- go to the life he was dreaming about moments ago.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance ingrate.”

When Mccree opened his eyes the visage was gone- no longer whirling within the distance of the planes. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned on to his other side. A strangled scream lodged itself in his throat when he found himself lying next to a familiar person - His old boss Reyes.

The man’s face shifted like the spirit that followed him since the man’s death, his eyes like the fire Mccree ran from. “You know who did this to us.” The man who was as much man as he was smoke lifted the barrel of a large heavy shot gun to mccree’s head, pointing it right between his eyes. Mccree had one chance to suck in a breath before the trigger was squeezed and let off with a loud blast.

 

Mccree woke up in a cold sweat, the sun just a mear sliver of light along the rise and falls of the prairie. He was still alive, as always, the visage reminded him of his place, his duty to those who had passed on. He owed them peace within their graves, and their peace wouldn’t be settled while the men who ruined and murdered them still lived.

Three more notches still had to be added to the gun.

Three more lives still needed to be taken.

Rising from the saddle that served as a pillow, Mccree stretched his stiff muscles. Sleeping in such a state was certainly nothing like sleeping in a bed but it usually bore no such aches. The exhausted Vaquero figured it must have been from the vissages presents. The image of the mask’s hollow eyes burned like fire every time he blinked.

It took several minutes, but eventually he rose, groaning as he did and reached to prode the embers. With luck, a few still burned, pitifully until he added kindling. Breakfast was a humble assembly of strong coffee, jerky and dried apple slices.  
With food in his belly and his bay Mustang having clipped at the prairie grass around them, he cinched the saddle and went off once more. Hot was the sun that burned without mercy in the sky, and with the few cotton puff clouds casting small islands of shade along the plateau, both rider and horse sweat profusely.

The green grass gave way to yellow, and within miles the earth hardened under his horses hooves. Meager grass tufts waved in the breeze and dwarfed cactus and sage dotted the wasteland. The entire day the rider and horse traveled through the barren land, camping in the solitude where no creature lived. The night was still and a lesser man might have found it suffocating. At day’s break the pair continued on, putting nearly sixty miles behind them. The horse began to veer from Mccree’s intended direction, but he let it. Trusting the horse who must have smelled water. The pair had crossed worse situations, but want for drink could convince anyone to take an extra day on their trip.

At the end of the plateau towards the reddening east, herds of buffalo grazed. The few clouds began to turn pink with the dying sun which sparkled on the glorious sight of a river, flowing through miles away and blessing the area with healthy greens. Mccree had reached the outskirts of what he was sure would be Faircross, though he would have to near a town to ask. He knew little of the town, and hoped it to be small- one he could easily get in and out of, but he wouldn’t count on his luck. He knew by the plums of rising smoke on the horizon a train was passing through. For an area such as this to have a track meant higher population or at least a good cattle stop.

“Come on boy,” Mccree patted and rubbed at the horses neck as it snorted. Tonight he could wash, refill his cantine and water skins and groom to be presentable for whatever size town it would be.

He took his time at the river, letting the horse wander and crop without bridle or saddle. He knew his companion to be a faithful steed, one whom he could rely on and yet it be a free soul. It was the way with most vaquero's- to trust the horse with his life yet to be master when necessary. The horse was more than just a tool; it was a living creature to be respected and feared. Unlike the American cowboy who commanded the horse with rough handling of the bridle and reins so often called neck reining, the Vaquero handled the beast with little more than body language- a slight shift of body weight or leg pressure. It was known that a proper Vaquero could topple a bull with the weight of a thousand pounds or more without hurting the bull or horse. Mccree himself lived up to the legacy, having done his share of roping and wrangling, but that was years ago and those years left life a lifetime to the man who’d live three different lives.

After washing in the crisp lake, sadel and packs stashed out of sight, Mccree lit a dim fire under the branches of a cottonwood so that the smoke would disperse through the branches. He filled himself then settled for the night, sighing towards the stars. Tomorrow he would be sleeping in a real bed, a comfort he treasured. Although he knew he wouldn’t sleep deep, he appreciated the soft mattress and convenience of a bath. He could have his hair and beard trimmed, stock up on gresh tobacco and drink an assortment of liquor. He knew his objective was to find and kill Ewars Adamson but it would be good for him to rejuvenate while he could before having to run once more.

Mccree started off slowly towards where he thought the town might be, following near, but off the beaten pathway. Dawn rose over the hills and valleys to paint the tree’s leaves with it’s red beams. The sky promised clear weather, though several more clouds joined in from yesterday against the sky.

Good weather to begin.

It wasn’t until mid morning when Mccree ran across the first person, two gentlemen dressed in a casual cow-poke fashion but showing little of the wear a hard profession could bring. Mccree sized them up from his higher vantage on the hill. They rode well, but rested the whole of their weight against the horse. Their chatter was clear and casual, and the long poles sticking from the saddle bags indicated their leisurely intent. The two men had to have been merchants- possibly farm merchants or something of the sorts. While Mccree knew a great deal about the land and how to read people, he was ready to admit he was lacking in knowledge about what goods and trades were to be going on in such a town. Their quality of dress meant that the town was well established however, even if just for a trading route.

With a soft tap of the knee and shifting of weight, Mccree guided his horse down towards the two men, raising a hand in friendly salute when he saw them and calling out first, “Howdy-” He knew he looked rough, jeans faded to near colorless due to wear and beard unkempt.

“Howdy stranger,” The man on the left raised his hand and greeted back. Neither reached for their guns, riding on their hips, slid back- another indication to Mccree of the town’s size. It had an operating law- or at least peacemakers, so that the citizens felt peaceful enough to not be constantly concerned about where their weapons lie. He’d have to be quick when he found Ewars Adamson, quick not only to shoot but to run- faster than it were the devil himself at his heels.

“Looks like nice weather,” Mccree nodded, riding up slowly, an easy way about his movements. “Perfect fer fishin’.”

The two laughed as if they agreed, “Shore is!”

“Say, what town near here?”

Only one of the men seemed a touch surprised Mccree didn’t know, the other answered easily, unphased by so many who passed through, “Why Faircross is, not an hour ride Nore-east.” He jabbed a thumb behind him at the path they rode.

“Thank ye, haven’t been by here fer some time.”

“S’that so?”

Mccree nodded, scratching at his beard, “Been prospecting fer a time.”

“Any luck?” The second gentleman asked, tipping up his hat to better show his blue eyes.

“Small some,” He gave, though it was a lie. “‘Nuff t’ invest in the rails I should think. Heard from a friend Faircross was up and coming.”

“She shore is!” The two men puffed out their chests, “Reckon it will be big on the maps in no time. Already got her a stop on the rails n’ everything.”

“What’s her trade?” Mccree’s brows rose under the hat’s brim, “Seems a bit clean to be cattle n’ too dry to be good farming.” He fiend the ignorance, laughing inwardly as the men bought it. Dence as they were- standing right next to a large river.

“No surh, this here’s prime fer special tobacco and the likes! Smart farmer’s been irrigating from this here river- Red’s foot.”

“Red’s foot huh?” It would explain for the barren stretch he’d crossed, over milling- over irrigating, forcing nature off her normal path.

“Yes sir,” The second’s horse skipped impatiently.

“Well, thank ye kindly, might hafta invest some thar… Good day.” Mccree gave a single nod of his head and wheeled the horse toward the path. For now he’d ride on, until the two men were out of sight, then he’d go back to riding around, hiding prints and staying out of sight. No one more should see him ride into town. He’d come as though he were on business, just off the rails. Every story a new one just slightly so, as to confuse any witnesses.

The proposed hour ride took Mccree three on account of his back tracking and side winding. Twice he pulled off and waited for a small company of riders to pass. Even just a quick look told Mccree of what sorts of men they were. He was familiar with their sort; thugs, rustlers, those who pretended to be the law keeping those who paid well and safe.

He was now, more certain than when Wilton Mockbee spilled about Ewars Adamson’s location that he was indeed holed up in this town.

Though, Mccree paused in thought, lighting a smoke, ‘holed’ was not the correct term. The damned rustler was more than likely living as a king within. Prosering with his business, pretending as though he didn’t screw over two men’s lives and play right into their murders. Men who lived like Ewars where rarely caught by the law, if they were, they got off easier than butter melting in the desert.

The discovery of a possible gang aside working for Ewars Mccree assumed that Faircross might look like something akin to the town near Steel Run, the ranch he’d worked for years ago. It was quite, but the folks were the friendly sort. Their buildings where little more than false fronts but they kept it clean under ‘gods manner’ as he often heard them say. There was a bar, but no fairer sex could be found dancing around the place, and hardly any stray fights went on. Within minutes of riding up into the wide dirt roads with stone walks near the buildings, a fight had already taken place, to men brawling on the end near a bar, several calling and laughing until a gunshot echoed through the streets.

Immediately Mccree’s hand was at his gun and his shoulders hunched to make himself a smaller target, but he relaxed almost instantly. The shot was a harmless one into the air to break up the fighting. He watched, chewing off a corner of his tobacco and spitting it into the street, as the sheriff and deputy- judging by their pompous stature- hauled off the two men.

The town was nothing like Steel Run. Even in the daytime it was noisey,, wagons passing through and all manners of persons going about their businesses. The stores had windows of glass and few began to show with brick, painted with signs and advertisements. Common places like “Zimmerman’s - Guns, Pistols, Tinwear and Feed” where on the ends, easy access for those who might have heavy wagon loads, while further in more delicate woodwork began showing on the buildings exterior with names such as “Max Scheffe Havana Cigars” and “The Fashion Specialty Shoppe” with gaggles of finely dressed woman bustling around. Several storied hotels stood prominent, and the tinkering of piano’s within saloons battled with the train’s shrill whistle.  
Mccree had made a habit of avoiding rail towns on the fact that he was a wanted man in several states, that attracted problems- but now as he passed through the crowds who hardly spared him a glance a top his bay horse, he supposed he’d continue to avoid them after the job on account of the population. By the time he’d checked into one of- what he saw- was three hotels, the “Brass Lion”, he was grateful for the dimming of noise the four wall brought. He sighed and looked out the window. He’d asked to be set up in a room facing the street, telling the owner he was from a small mining town that had struck rich, “So’s I’ve never seen the likes of this here town. I want t’see it all lit up at night!” The owner could hardly reject him in his enthusiasm, and set him up in the perfect place. From here, Mccree had the best sights on the the most prominent saloon.

After he washed his face and neck in the porcelain basin and recollected from the initial onslaught on a bustling town, the gunslinger paused at the clerks desk, “Say, who owns that there Saloon cross the street, mighty fine establishment.”  
The clerk lifted a match to the smoke Mccree placed between his lips and answered, “Why that’d be Dalton Smith, he and his business partner Mr. Adamson own near half the town.”

“S’that so.”

“I reckin’ it’s true.” The young man working as the clerk seemed an honest, eager gentleman, freckles and fair skin showing he’d never done a spot of heavy working in his life. Though he took pride in his knowledge and work, least that Mccree could respect, even if he was a tenderfoot.

“What kinda man is Mr. Adamson?” Mccree leaned on the desk, tapping ash into the tray on the side, noting the way the ginger’s eyes grew slightly fearful.

“He’s a powerful man, it’d be best to not cross him in anyway. Though… he can be friendly of sorts. Donated mounds to this here town, got her up and running and made her into the glory she is.”

“I see… Well, thank ye son,” Mccree nodded and pushed back from the desk, “Say- where can a man get a shave round here?”

“Barber is just up the road- pass the Mercantile and down that block. S’the one that got the red and blue pole outside.”

“Mm, good day then,” He nodded once again and saunted out of the hotel’s keep.

The barber was Mccree’s first stop, having his hair and beard trimmed to be something presentable. It felt nice to get the hair from the back of his neck, it having grown long enough to keep back into a small ponytail. Next was a saloon- not the one across the streets with the bells and whistles, but the seediest. He knew Ewars Adamson owned the nice gaudy ‘Diamond Belle’, but he’d bet his life that he owned this one as well.

It was in Mccree’s best interest to hang back and watch the social status of each person was before interacting. He ordered a whisky and leaned against the bar, casually observing the games of poker, rulet and Faro going. Men laughed and hollered, woman in little clothing hanging from the arm of the winning bet or crooning over the drunkest man- more than likely to take him in the back and rob him blind. It was just how things went in these establishments.

Through looking around the men who regarded him with half a thought, his eyes landed on a particular man through the sea of slobs and boars. This man- who seemed to be watching the crowd and persons at the table in which he played poker with keen tilted eyes- was easily the cleanest person in the establishment, and without doubt the most beautiful man Mccree had ever laid eyes on. He looked down on the table from his hawkish nose with a look that could rival a storm. He work his ink black hair back, wings of silver near his sharpened cheekbones. Thin lips pressed into a line as he traded two cards to the dealer. Mccree thought he had a good poker face, but he couldn’t read the man one way or the other. He was impassible, deadly and just looking at him made Mccree feel like he was running towards a storm.

Mccree was never one to run away, but towards, so he traded twenty dollars to the bar keep in chips and took a seat at another table playing cards where he could continuously glance at him. He knew the stranger was trouble, one way or another. He could tell by the way his pulse quickened at the sight and the way his appearance held his gaze.

Throughout the game, Mccree was far more interested in the stranger’s game than his own. Even more peculiarly was when the man- was he chinese?- shrugged off a woman who tried to cozy up next to him with a snarl. He trusted no one. That meant it would be difficult to get close to him, Mccree thought as he rubbed his chin, glancing back down at his hand.

It was a good deal, quiet possibly a winning hand, “Another drink,” Mccree waved over, relaxed and easy the entire game. He laid down his cards and the table collectively groaned.  
“Looks like lady luck’s with me t’day boys!” Mccree whooped and scooped the chips into his pile, grinning around a freshly rolled cigarillo.

“Fer now,” One man grumbled.

“Seems you’d better bow out befer you end up selling of your own wife!” Mccree joked to the man, giving him a hearty slap to the back. He meant to stir up the man, angry lips talked, eager to spill all they thought was unfortunate.

Their dealer laughed brightly, black hands skillfully collecting and shuffling out new hands. “Most people who come in here are local- where you from stranger?”

Mccree stretched back, pulling the smoke from his lips and puffing out a slow plume of smoke in the asian’s direction across the room, “North California, just rolled in. Gots me a hell of a dig and struck big.”

“S’that so?” The dealer hummed, he’d heard that many times, mostly from men right before they lost all their money.

“It is, but with most my nuggets investin’ like a proper man- thought I’d poke around and look for more… profitable business.”

“Well you sir came to the right town. Faircross is a boomin’ gem.” cards where delt and the loser of the table waved over another drink.

“Bloomin’ gem.. Mer like bloomin’ shait if you ask me.” His words where slurred with booze.

“Seemed mighty decent t’ me!” Mccree urged, trading out one of the cards and looking at the grumbling scott.

“Looks decent at first, but Ewars Adamson’s buying off the sheriff.”

“You know that ain’t true,” The dealer warned, more so than said, eyes glancing around the establishment, “You’re juss drunk, dun’t know what you’re sayin’.”

Though the man, in his drunken loss continued, spilling about how debts where collected in a violent manner and how Ewars Adamson’s thugs did the collecting, giving more than enough business for either the local doctor or mortician. The dealer seemed to give up on trying to keep the man’s lips sealed, and now regarded him with the sad look of a man on his deathbed. Bad news spilled from his cursing lips as his money disappeared into Mccree’s pile. With all his attitude, Mccree wasn’t surprised when the poor man shoved back from the table and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Yer a cheating son of a bitch!” His beady greens judged from their socket, as did a vein across his sweating forehead. “Yer swappin’ cards! I juss know it!” Chew colored spittle sprayed from his mouth.

“‘S that so?” Mccree drawled out, eyes moving slowly up towards the man, taking an extra moment to linger on the shaking hand over the shinning pistol stowed at the man’s hip. Mccree had on, shiney and heavy in it’s holster, though his own, he figured, was of greater weight and size and had more than likely spilled more blood than the furious young cow-puncher in front of him.

“Damn right it so!” He continued on his his fury, hand going to rest now on the gun. The room had already grown uneasy at the sudden outburst. It was a serious charge to accuse a man of cheating at cards. Acquisitions of such rarely ended without some form of violence. The bartender stooped for his shotgun, ready to fire a blank should need be to calm things down before they wrecked the dirty saloon- the dealer of the cards shifted in his seat, leaning back away from the fight bound to happen.

“Now calm down-” The dealer tried to reason, speaking in a hushed but firm tone, “yor just a little drunk and out of luck, ain’t nobody been cheatin’.”

“He has- just so!” The man hollered, finger now pointing at the pile of chips in front of Mccree, “Otherwise how else he got that so much?”

Mccree sucked in on his smoke, filling his senses with the deep woody flavoring before letting the smoke out in a tight stream, smug smile having melted by the second leaving an agitated frown, “Sit yerself down boy before your tears flood this whole damn bar.”

The cow-puncher stiffened, face turning a deeper shade of red. “Why you-” He went for his gun, but Mccree was too quick, his own pulled and fired, bullet ripping through the man’s gun arm and making him howl out in pain.

The entire saloon held its breath, deathly quiet save for the moans coming from the injured man. “Recon this man’s gonna need himself a doctor.” Mccree’s cigarlo bounced on his lip as he spoke, slowly standing and shuffling the chips into his hat and ambled over to the bartender, dumped the chips and with a raise of his cigarlo from his lips he told the man tending- though in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “How ‘bout a round on me to get these men back in high spirits?!” The bartender flashed him a smile, and with a collective cheer things went back to normal.

Mccree spared a glance back at the dark haired stranger, who’s stormy eyes rested on the body of the bloodied armed back, who are now being carried away. He glanced at Mccree and their eyes locked. Mccree had never been a religious man but he figured either the stranger was the devil or a god sent angel- maybe both?

He suppressed a shiver and tipped his hat, receiving a scoff and a disgusted eye roll. So much for friendly gestures, that man truly trusted no one.

Once the chips had been cashed Mccree slipped the money into his breast pocket and left the bar. He hadn’t learned much about Ewars Adamson’s location, but he now had more than enough to know the man was still a goddamned criminal and would have to pay for his crimes with his life.

A casual whistle left the man’s lips and he hooked a thumb through the loops on his belt. With a bit more money in his pockets he wandered around town, spending a lengthy amount of time surveying the streets from the top of a book or newspaper. For the most part, Faircross was like any town or city; full of life and humans with their own concerns. There didn’t seem to be any issues on the surface, but Mccree was sure that wherever Ewars Adamson was there was something sketchy. It was as the man in the saloon had said; he was full of shit deals and scum.

The following day proceeded in a similar fashion, only instead of the worst bar, Mccree made his way to the second worst in town. Here, amongst the stuffed deer heads and scantily clad woman he was disappointed with a lack of the well dressed Asian. He supposed that someone who looked so fine ought to be within the wealthiest of bars, not the scum. Then again- he too looked to be searching for something.

It was the thought of the man and what he could possibly be after that kept Mccree up into the night on the third day of his visitation. He pondered on the look in his eyes- certainly one of a killer. But was he one of Ewars Adamson’s men? With the money Ewars Adamson possessed he would be able to hire on any hand, and the size of the man’s exposed forearms and broad shoulders made him seem very capable of snapping someone’s neck. Every inch he saw seemed beautifully dangerous.

  
Looking at the scratched time piece mccree owned, he sighed. It was one in the morning, sleep refusing to come as he mulled over his thoughts. He still hadn’t seen Ewars Adamson, but he knew he was close. Mccree was thinking on his itchy trigger finger when he heard a soft click near the window. His breath hitched and his hand went right for the gun under his pillow. There was the possibility that it was just some tumbleweed scratching by the blowing winds. He waited, seconds ticking by with the tick-tock of the timepiece that the cowboy’s straining ears could now pick up. The scratchings however faint they were, continued, then there was a soft click and then silence.

Mccree cursed under his breath and slid off the bed without a single creak. He crossed the room to the small wardrobe and slid inside, keeping it cracked just enough to stare into the room. He stilled his breathing to silence shallow breaths and waited, patient as the apache, for whoever was ghosting through the heavy velvet curtains and into his private room.

A black gloved hand was the first to enter, then the arm followed; an indigo dragon’s head wrapped around the owner’s flesh. Mccree’s eyes narrowed as foot followed, cloven in strange shoes with what looked like metal hoofs on the toes, then the rest of the person melted into view. It was done with such grace and skill that Mccree knew himself did not poses, and thought to give a low whistle of appreciation. Mccree had seen assassins before, but none compared to the stranger he’d seen at the divey saloon- now crouched in his room.

Once again sharp grey eyes took in everything, and Mccree had to do everything he could to not look directly at the man, but just past, so not to attract his focus. The assassin inched through the room, checking drawers and prodding the bed sheets. His gaze always shifting, his hand always hovering back by the sheath of what was probably the blade meant to take Mccree’s life. He knew there must have been bounty hunters after his head, but never imagined he’d find pleasure in looking at them. If anyone was to take his life, Mccree figured he’d be mighty glad to let it be someone so fine looking.

  
The assassin soon found Mccree’s saddlebags and prodded through. Mccree smirked, thinking that the man, when finding what must have been near two hundred dollars would pocket the money. Though his brows raised when he simply returned it to its place, gently, quietly, as though he didn’t want anyone finding out he was there. But time for Mccree was ticking down, eventually the man would investigate the closet and find Mccree hiding there. Before that would happen he had to make his move. It was when the man’s back had turned for the first time towards the closet, having found the small leather bag under the only chair in the room. His black gloved hands held a green bound book, golden embossing of simple blades of grass.

  
“Don’t move,” Mccree steeped from the wardrobe, the doors creaking and the man dropping the book, quickly reaching for his blade until the gun’s hammer had clicked back. He was tensed like a cornered cat, slowly raising his hands up and glancing behind his shoulder. Their eyes met and the grey’s flashed in the small amount of lighting.

  
He said something under his breath, a strange foreign murmur and it occurred to Mccree that it was possible he didn’t speak english. A man understood any language awfully quick with a gun to his back. “The hell you doin’, poken’ round a man’s things, going through his books. Ye ain’t after money, saw that myself… Must be after my head I recon?” He drawled on, socked feet padding a bit closer so he could see the figure who watched him in the darkness, lip curling up in a snarl. “Tryin’ t’ figure out if it really was lil’ ole me before taking my head back for the bounty?”

  
The man gave a scornful laugh, one note and brutal. “You Americans, always running your mouths. Shoot me and get my shame over with.”

  
Mccree was taken back, head doing a quick half shake to get rid of the surprise. The other man’s voice was thick with an accent and deep like rumbling thunder. “Figured you couldn’t speak English,” He shrugged, gun never leaving the man’s back.

“Predictable,” he scoffed back. “Well?”

“I ain’t gunna shoot until you tell me why yer in here.” Mccree could have sworn he saw a sharp smile because quick as a whip the man had moved, leg sweeping under Mccree’s feet making him yelp as firm ground suddenly became air. He dropped heavy to the floor and before he could think to scramble any sort of defense, a blade was pressed to his throat. “Well shit,” He grunted out. He really didn’t want to die, he would have been ‘okay’ being taken by the beautiful man, but he hoped to go down in a fight of glory, not being caught off guard.

“Why are you snooping around town.” The man hissed.

“Maybe same reason yer snoopin’ round my room darlin’.” Mccree retorted. This earned him a hiss and a sharp knee to his chest, damn near winding him.

“Stop speaking nonsense!” The assassin snapped.

“We’re after each other- well I’m after yer employer.” Mccree laughed, “Lucky bastard for goin’ and hiring such capable hands. Though I didn’t think old man Ewars saw me.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed into slits of grey, “I am not employed by Mr. Adamson.”

Mccree’s brows rose, “No shit? Huh, well… Who else wants to get their hands on my bounty and wants me dead?”

“You’re a wanted man with a bounty, interesting.” He hummed, tilting his head to view Mccree in a new light. “I did not take you as such.”

“Aww, that’s mighty sweet of you.” Mccree all but rolled his eyes, skin prickling with still being under the blade's edge.

“Who are you after then- you said we are after each other, but you after my employer who is not the man you say.” He chuckled, “Do you even know your own head.”

“Come on, sweetin’ up a man and then slappin’ him the next moment? Yer playing mighty cruel.”

The grey eyes regarded him for a moment before the weight he had placed upon Mccree, keeping him pinned to the ground lessened, “You have no idea.” The words sent a cold shiver crawling down Mccree’s neck.

The assassin stood, plucked up Mccree’s gun and emptied it of its bullets before tossing it on the bed. “Seems I was mistaken about you cowman. You’re as dangerous as a kitten, just like most- you wield a weapon and yet do not know how to use it.” He clucked his disapproval and moved towards the window. “You will not contact the police, because you do not want to die, and you would do wise to stop poking your nose into cow shit.”

  
Mccree knew that it was supposed to be a threat, but somehow his words left him feeling confused and off. He knew of poking his nose into unwanted business, and perhaps that’s what the man who fled through the window ment. Either way, it was an odd encounter. It unsettled Mccree, knowing he was lucky to be alive.

  
That man had moved more quickly than Mccree had seen before. Should they meet again, he wouldn’t be making the same mistake of assuming him regular.

  
“Foolish ingreat.” He could hear Reye’s voice rasp through his memory; the same voice that scolded him years ago on a robbery he’d nearly botched with underestimating someone else.

Mccree didn’t have to turn to know where the voice came from- the visage that so often sounded like the man he respected, but now just a shadow, just a ghost with a white skull.

Mccree removed himself from the hotel the following day, packing up his items and choosing to camp far outside of town. The assassin's visitation proved he’d pushed the boundary on how long he could stay in one place which meant he had to get hard to work at finding out where Ewars Adamson could be. As luck would have it, he caught wind of a cattle purchase going down right outside of town. The deal was five dollars per head and there was estimated to be near eleven thousand in the heard. The deal was fishy at best, anyone who knew about the cattle trade could see that. It was more than likely that the cattle had been stolen from other herds and collected to be sold.

He spent the better part of the day trailing several men who seemed to be making their way out of town; two of them he’d previously noticed at the seedy bar, watching the conversation taking place at his poker table. He had a good feeling these men were associated with Ewars Adamson. The riders hardly bothered hiding their trail, not expecting anyone to tail them.

Out into the plains he rode, among tall indian grasses and sunflowers where groups of aspen’s poked from the lush greenery until that gave way into dryer short grasses and sage. Often Mccree would pause and take out his binoculars and survey the land, keeping the riders out of sight. What he was looking for was the cattle deal; dust raised by the moving rustled herd.

At night he kept to a small batch of trees, setting up a small fire within to hide his presence, for in the distance there was a dot of glowing orange to betray the hustlers position. He lit a smoke and rested, continuing to follow on the trail. Eventually the set of three became eight, then back down to five. Their paths split, and Mccree was forced to pick between two sets of tracks. One seemed to lead a loop east, farther into the short grass and barren land, while the other headed west, towards what Mccree knew to be railroad. After a moment of squatting in the dirt, inspecting the tracks he chose to follow the east set. Eventually, he found the dust clouds, the herd of cattle and cowboys patrolling around.

That was it, Mccree knew from the size and bustle of the men around that this was the rustled set. What poor rancher had the misfortune to have so much stolen? For the rest of the day Mccree stayed at his high vantage and watched the group through binoculars. He was a patient man and would wait for as long as it’d take for any sign of Ewars Adamson rolling in. The deal would be done, and the man would surely ride off either alone or with just a few men. Mccree would confront him and take him down then, when they made camp before entering town.

But for the whole day Mccree watched, and Ewars Adamson never showed up. The cowboy went through nearly five cigarillos and still felt his nerves jump and heart rocket with every person who road in or out of the graving cows. At night, Mccree barely slept, waking so often to ensure that fires still burned and that the large party wasn’t on the move. He hated these times of ‘patient reflection’.  
The term had come from a woman he had learned at a young age to greatly respect and admire. Her name was Anna Amari, a small woman with a tattoo swirling under her eye. She had told him when he first inquired it that it was the mark of Horus, and it was that deity that she worshiped.

Anna was the finest sniper Mccree had ever seen. Even with the poorest of rifles she could snipe needles off cacti from insurmountable distances. Naturally, Mccree begged to know her trick to make such shots, but at first she shook her head gravely and denied him. At first, Mccree was a wild son-of-a-bitch who was happy to storm in, guns blazing to any robbery. He talked big and would swing fists at any hombre who dared look at him twice. Mccree was a fire burning through the dry grasses that where his past and pain, and eventually- the woman figured- he’d burn out. And he did- though it was years later and after being the cause of what could have been a great tragedy if not for the individuals who had kept a more sound head.

The outlaw group had planned to rob a group of stage-coaches heading north. They were promised to have thousands worth of gold dust and cash on the way to the more prominent banks. At that time, before the war Reyes wasn’t picky about who they robbed, so long as it would profit. The plan was to sneak in at night when the stage coaches were stopped for switching of horses, but they never did. The stage coach drove hard into the morning before switching out in that mornings soft light. Reye’s had wanted to call off the robbery, but Mccree was overconfident, boasting they could easily hold them up- it wasn’t Reye’s style for hold ups then, just sneaky in and out covert operations. No one saw them so there was never a bounty. They argued for a time before Mccree and shoved on his mask and covertly rode down.

  
No one had to join him; the group could have easily left Mccree to his own vices and watched him die. They never had to sacrifice their own safety for him- that fact still humbled him at the remembrance of the event. So the stupid young kid rides in- and the wise leaders followed. They held up the coach and left with only a thousand dollars, but least they left alive. Many of them were wounded, and they had to run hard and fast from the bodies of the stage coach drivers. The problem Mccree hadn’t thought about was the stagecoaches guns. He was over confident in his own quick draw, but even a fast gun can’t take down twenty men alone.

  
Mccree was one of the unfortunate sons-of-bitches that had been roughed up badly, his horse gunned down. The end of the heist was a strange blur, but he can recall bits of Reye’s shouting orders in hard Spanish, fighting his way through bullets and dragging his body back to his own horse, riding with him to their hideout and nursing him back to health. When he was well enough to listen Reyes filled his ear with the hardest of lectures, at the end his voice broke and he turned away sharply, fighting down tears, leaving before Mccree could out a single word.

  
That heist he realized the importance of a good plan, humility, and most importantly that he had a family once again. After years of learning to live as his own, he felt the warmth and obligation to their motley crue, his new found family.  
It was them; their kindness and embracing of Mccree- they were why he was doing this hunting of man, this revenge, this god damned waiting.

  
The sun was dipping low into the sky, the cowboys grouping up at the chuck.wagon for their dinner meal when a new dust trail in the distance brought Mccree his first hope. He gazed the binoculars at the persons riding up. Two of the men’s sleeves where dotted in red, but they looked to be fine. Mccree spared a half second thought for the poor bastards whose blood it was, before he saw the third and front rider.

  
Mccree sucked in a breath, and thoughts all together disappeared. Years of tracking and tailing took over and he was on his horse, riding back through the scrubs and trees until he dismounted and rounded a bend where the company would leave later that day. It was near the train tracks- the path they’d take and it was too perfect. All the waiting was worth it, the hours spent in tense suspense seemed like nothing now that he had his prize in his sights. Tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I did with Reaper? OOO!  
> I'll be trying to update Biweekly on sundays!  
> Join me on my twitch streams to talk about overwatch ships and fun times!  
> https://www.twitch.tv/k1misama


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't always prepare for what you'll meet along the trail, or train tracks.

The tawny mare’s hooves thundered against the hard Earth as Mccree gave chase. It wasn’t supposed to take place like this- but as Mccree had come to know all too well, life rarely worked out how one thought it would. Throughout his life he had stages, all set and planned. 

When he was around the age of eight, a nameless man had passed through their farm. Although he said nothing, he stayed with his family for a full day. They fed him, gave him a bed, and in the morning Mccree woke early to watch him step into the leather and swing his leg over the horse. The man, with dark eyes and darker skin tipped his sombrero at Mccree’s boyish wonder and said, “Ride with honor boy,” and with that he was gone. 

The image of the man politely tipping his hat and the stoic face had always stuck with Mccree. To his youthish mind he was the very epitome of the western cowboy; one who strove to work hard and gallantly, one who had dusty boots but a kind smile when it mattered. He was adventure and everything Mccree wanted- but at fourteen, Mccree didn’t think he’d be forced into something he wanted to soon and so painfully. He’d broken horses, and knew the skills of a vaquero since nine, having poured everything he was into the honorable study and practice- but at the passing of his parents, he had no where else to go but to service his dream.

“Come on!” Mccree urged at his horse, knowing where to lay his weight so for the best mobility of the thundering mare. The horse's nostrils flared and it grunted now and again. He was gaining quickly on Ewars Adamson and his crew of four. He’d gotten them down from eight to what was remaining now. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But it was- for when Mccree laid in wait to take out the surrounding men that sheltered Ewars Adamson the others came riding up to their camp. 

Fourteen was too young to be stripped of his family and home; too young to learn the harsh bitter reality that people are cruel and unkind. When Mccree rode to work for a ranch he was except, but only because his eyes had turned from wonderment into a fiery drive. He fought tooth and nail for every penny. Anyone who dared to insult his parents found himself either in a brawl or looking down the end of his gun. He had always been a quick draw but time made him quicker.  
What he had learned about roping cattle made him valuable- he could topple a thousand pound steer without causing damage to the bull or his horse. With his temper and knowledge it was only a matter of time before he began to find other ways of trying to expel the pain in his heart. That was were the Deadlock crew came in- hard riders and robbers. The thrill made him feel alive, and their companionship while far away from family, help fill the void in his heart. They fought for each other, bleed for each other- and all ended up hanging- save for Mccree.

Mccree swore under his breath, there was only a mile now between him and Ewars Adamson. His horse had long legs and an unmatchable drive, but even this flight was pushing the beast. The territory was beginning to bloom into taller grasses, hills that bent with stockings of tall trees. His prey would soon be receiving far too many chances to slip away if Mccree didn’t catch up soon.  
Their chase lead along the rails, fine surface along the edges for any horse to race, dirt and grass flying up from hooves that pushed beyond the limit. Again, Mccree found himself cursing- cursing god, cursing Ewars and his men, cursing the rails that seemed endless and brought corruptible justice into wild free lands. 

Scenery was a blur as rider and horse flew through the lands, the tracks becoming a iron smear to his vision, so focused on the task ahead. It wasn’t until something laid across the tracks broke the endless stream of grey that Mccree’s thoughts were interrupted. That something looked more to be a someone- probably some poor drunken bastard or victim of a robbery. Their form didn’t move in the slightest, but Mccree kept riding, Ewars was his goal, whoever that was could fair for themselves.

Ewars Adamson, Jack’s business partner, old friend and the man that Mccree blames having a hand in the outlaw’s families life. Today- it had to be today. Now that the man caught on that Mccree was after him he’d run and hide out somewhere. Mccree couldn’t lose the chance of settling his death. He would see that Ewars Adamson was lying dead in the dust, and he’d take pleasure in seeing him like the man with black hair on the train tracks. 

He’d seen hair black as such on the hair of the person lying prone on the tracks just once. In fact, he had the pleasure of studying it twice- the first in a scummy bar, the second in the privacy of his hotel- under less risque circumstances than what it might being in one's room that might imply. In the dim lighting of the bar it had seemed like flowing ink, and the second it had glistened like silver in the moon’s lighting. 

He knew the figure after all, but what he didn’t know was what in hells name the man was lying on the tracks motionless. Mccree hadn’t gotten a good look at him, and he could recall nothing from memory as to why he would be there.  
Quickened pace began to slow, but the horse still rode fast, confused by it’s masters actions. The once focused gunslinger seemed to faulter for a moment before he whistled, and spurred the horse back into action. “Come on!” He shouted, taking the bend, viewing Ewars in fast retreat. Mccree was finally gaining, and the hunt was on once more. 

When Mccree had begun riding with Blackwatch, the name of his second gang run by a half Mexican half black man named Reyes; the whole group used the trading shop named The Victorian Mill. This building was run primarily by Jack, Reyes’s husband- though they professed to just be partners in crime, the group knew better.

Jack and Ewars Adamson were business partners, Ewars obtaining the goods that couldn’t be purchased then sold locally, and sending them to The Victorian Mill, to be sold. The location was prime, and the business flourished rapidly. Though, at the beginning of the Civil war things changed. Trade became less about the traveling man and more about soldiers and providing for the army. Jack was born in the North, and while he lived now mid south, he was a full union blooded. He would have hung a flag in support had Reyes not argued so fervently against it. He knew well that anything connecting them to being union supports would get them all killed as well as their home burned to the ground.

At that time as well, Black watch stopped robbing trains and stagecoaches for riches and began targeting supply trains heading for the confederacy army. While none of them fought in the lines, they did their damnedest to provide aid to the side that promised blacks the freedom they deserved. 

Ewars stopped dealing in fine cigars and began to deal in information. He and Jack became an unstoppable force with the Blackwatch gang to do the dirty work behind them. However- after the war Ewars had grown so used to the riches illegal information and trade could bring he never stopped.

Blood bonds are difficult to break, and Ewars was nearly family to Jack- ties like the thick ropes on the black haired stranger, laid across the rails.  
For as vast as the west was, information spread like the plague, and eventually news of Ewar being suspected of rustling from others heards reached Jacks ears. The golden boy was in a uproar and immediately cut ties with the rotten trader. Things didn’t end on a good note, though ends rarely did out west.

A shrill train whistle broke Mccree free from his single minded pursuit of Ewars. Ahead they raced against a speeding train, and while it was of little concern for either man- both metal beast and man going opposite directions- it would soon become a very large problem for the stranger on the rails a while back. 

Mccree gritted his teeth and leaned forward in the saddle. The stranger’s fate was no problem of his, in fact Mccree would be able to sleep better, knowing the man who so easily entered his room and could have killed him would be gone.  
He argued with himself, trying desperately to convince himself that it wasn’t his problem, obligation or anything of the sorts to rescue the man. Turning back now would mean losing track of the target he’d been tracking for nearly a year now. And even if he did turn around there was no guaranteeing he could save the stranger in time.

The conductor would be unable to see the body in time to stop, especially around the bend, the rest of the sight blocked by stone and greenery. The death would be quick and merciful.  
But…

“Aw Hell!” Mccree squeezed his eyes shut and sharply reined his horse, the beast letting out a cry as it drifted with all it’s might and turned the opposite direction. “I can’t believe i’m doin’ this- I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M DOIN’ THIS AW HELL!” Mccree shouted and spurred the horse, feeling fire in his blood as he turned his back on his goal- his life and raced against the train. 

The heavy pattern that the horse's hooves made were drowned out by the locomotive’s mechanical chugging. Sweat rolled down Mccree’s brows and his horse was drenched, though it pushed harder, more so than when they gave chase to Ewars. They passed the train that slowed slightly for the bend in tracks and Mccree searched for the man along the tracks. Ignoring where he was in relativity to the land was a mistake, and Mccree would have been swearing profusely had the air from his lungs not been squeezed out with anxiety. 

What if the man was working with Ewars and he was a distraction for the man to get away. It was possible that they planned this- that now the man was lost forever. That thought would have made Mccree stop his search for the stranger if he had not seen him, awake now, and wriggling on the tracks.

“Like some god damned maiden!” Mccree’s beast slowed enough that he wouldn’t break his neck in the dismount, a hard dive, tuck and roll before he was sprinting up to the man. 

All suspicion of the stranger being a decoy melted the moment his eyes locked with Mccree’s. They held pure terror as the iron vibrated from the oncoming train. He did nothing to shout out as Mccree threw himself down and sawed at the thick ropes binding the man’s body and looping through the iron ties and holding him there in place. “How bad’d they want you rail meat?!” The gunslinger talked out of pure panicked habit. He made quips, tried to seem collected as he worked and the stranger strained against the bonds to make them taught and easy to saw and break. 

The whistle cried again, lounder, longer, and the trails trembled with her fury. Mccree gritted his teeth, a few cords stood between him and the train’s victory. He would not loose, not when he’d lost the trail on Ewars, not when this man’s life was at stake.  
Mccree could see the iron beast, belching her black smoke from the corner of his eye, adrenaline making his give a cry that could rival the trains as he pulled the stranger with all his might. There was a moment where the ropes gave a pitiful last effort to keep him bound to the rails, then they gave- Mccree tumbling backward with the stranger, both landing heavily on the grass just as the train thundered passed, still screaming shrilly and kicking up pebbled and bits of dirt at the two. 

“Well,” Mccree panted out, chest heaving as his gazed up at the clear blue sky. “That was… one hell of a ride.” There was no response and he rolled over to make sure he had indeed save the stranger and didn’t just imagine the whole thing. 

To his relief, the stranger was there- alive- and in one whole piece. Now that Mccree wasn’t focused on the ropes he saw the man’s cause for silence; a rag tied brutally tight so as to gag him, stopping any scream that would have aided his escape. “Who did you tango with,” Mccree mumbled, though he had his guess getting the blood covered men he had seen coming from this direction just the other day. He sat up and searched for his knife, retrieving it and setting to work once again to free the man, this time from the ties that held his feet, wrists and the gag in place. 

The stranger looked so different than when he’d first seen him, glaring at poker cards in fine garb just a few day previous. He was now in disarray, covered in bruises of varying sizes and colors, and blood leaked from an unseen amount of wounds. It was clear that he was in an unfair fight, one that Mccree’s brows raised just at the thought of. He’d only witnessed very little of the assassins skills, but what he’d seen was enough to guess that the fight was stacked in favor of the other side and unfair.

The stranger rasped out a what sounded like a small thanks, and tested his limbs, hands swollen from the tight binding. “Hey, whoa-” Mccree grabbed the man as he struggled to sit upright. “What’s yer name- who dun this?”

The stranger gasped for air, obviously struggling for consciousness now that he was sitting up right and adrenaline for being in a life-or-death situation fled. “Hanzo,” he barely got out before he was slumping against Mccree, in and out of conscious just enough to get himself back to the ground. 

Mccree cursed and took a quick look around. Ewars’s boys were sure to be back if it was their doing, and he would have bet his life that it was. They were the largest- if not only, gang in the Faircross area, and somehow, this Hanzo had gotten on the wrong side of them.

But, any person who was enemies with Ewars and his crew was a friend to Mccree, so the gunslinger scooped up Hanzo and whistled for his horse. He had enough fire in his blood to lift the solid man up into the saddle and ride out, one arm around the unconscious man’s waist and the other holding the horses bridal. 

Mccree road with Hanzo who now and again he felt tense in his grips, obviously waking only to lose consciousness once more. The fellow was losing more blood, but Mccree figured he’d have to live long enough for them both to get a respectable distance from town before he could set to healing him. That’s where Mccree found himself hours later, damp from someone else’s blood and weak with exhaustion, stumbling from the saddle among a thick grove south of Faircross. 

A brook garbled within ear shot, and Mccree let his horse loose to drink. The tawny mare wasted no time on snorting and plugging it’s frothy nose into the cold clean liquid. The area seemed peaceful enough, thick with coverage from outside ideas and enough in miles that only hunters seeking fresh meat might travel within. Where Faircross, the nearest establishment, was a wealthy town, he doubted they’d see too many hunters.

Here, he would tend to Hanzo-pulling two bullets from the man, set his tent for a day, possibly two, then move on. Mccree limped with exhaustion over to the brook and dropped to his knees, following his horse and dunking his head into the water. He held his breath for several seconds, the chill momentarily revitalizing him enough to tend to the rescued man. 

The whole situation was in a way complicated, Mccree thought. Here was the stranger who had broke into his room and tried to kill him- well, could have killed him- laying at Mccree’s hand as to cleaned and bound his wounds. He had been tied to the tracks a dame in a ten cent novel, and god was he more beautiful, even with his swollen eye and mangled face then any female Mccree had seen. It of course, was in his favor that he tended to lean away from the ‘fairer sex’, but he had thought- Hanzo, was his name- was striking from the moment he laid eyes on him. 

Mccree remained respectful as he made a bed for the man out of his travel blanket and waded his other clothing up for a pillow. Finally, before he himself slept, he placed the water skin next to the man should he awake and need the drink.  
Life- had an odd way of never working out how one thought it should, Mccree thought before sleep claimed him. 

The gunslinger’s life ensured that one never slept deeply. One who was unable to wake at the crack of a twig, or in this case a sharp pained inhale, was a dead man.  
Mccree’s eyes flew open at the noise and he was up, with gun in hand, before he even thought about what the noise meant. After a few seconds passes, more pained breathing and grunts, Mccree rubbed the fog from waking with a hand to his face and pushed through the tent’s waxed canvas flaps. “Howdy thar darlin’.” 

Hanzo’s eyes were immediately on his, and it was easy to surmise that from his cornered rabbit’s stair, he knew that he was weaponless. “You,” He hissed, body coiled as much as it could, ready like a rattler.

“Now, that ain’t no way to talk to yer lord n’ savior now is it.” Mccree chuckled, raising both hands empty and sitting to show he meant Hanzo no harm.

Hanzo thought on that for a moment before he was struggling upright, and then, while Mccree watched with mild concern and fascination the man knelt, hand on his knees and bowed before the gunslinger. “My apologies, you have saved my life. I owe you a great debt, and I shall repay it with full return.”

“It- uh,” Mccree rubbed his beard and regarded Hanzo awkwardly. He’d never had someone bow to him before, and his discomfort grew when Hanzo continued, pressing his forehead to the dirt.

“I shall serve you until I in turn have saved your life as you have mine.”

“N-Now hold up there!” Mccree waved his. “That ain’t necessary!”

Hanzo’s face darkened and he looked up, indents from the dirt pressed into his forehead, “It is though. A life for a life-”

“Well, how ‘bout you just say we’re even for you not killing me back at the hotel?”

The other man shook his head, “it was not my plan to kill you.”

Mccree cursed. He wasn’t a bit comfortable with the proposition of the man staying with him for however long it might be until this ‘debt’ was paid. Mccree was a capable person, he could save his own life. “Look- Hanzo- sweet thing of you t’ offer, but that really aint somethin’ I want. Let’s just say thank you and part ways.”

Hanzo glared, face paling as the pain began to settle in, “No-” He grumbled, “My honor is at stake, I shall follow you from a great distance if that is what it takes- but I will repay my debt and serve in honor to redeem myself.” 

“Aw hell.” Mccree gave a despairing sigh, fishing in his pocket for a smoke, “Where you come from anyway that makes honor such a big stink.”

“My home land-” his face grew dark, and Mccree swore he saw a hint of longing within, “Is Nippon.”

“Nippon?” Mccree puffed at the cigarlo for a moment, trying to think of where that was. 

“Americans call it Japan.” Hanzo offered after a moment.

There was another moment where the gunslinger had to think. It seemed like so long ago, but he recalled grand excitement from those who gathered around a newspaper reading about the strange foreigners who traveled to talk with the president at the time. But it was so long ago, he could recall nothing else. “The only foreigners i’m familiar with that kind of look like you are the Chinese… sure that’d not be the same.”

Hanzo bristled slightly, “No, it is not, I assure you. ” He leaned to the left, adjusting his high posture and easing himself to laying back down. “Besides, I am practically an American. I speak your language, I live here now- would that not make me American?”

Mccree’s brow cocked, then an idea hit him. “Say, you know, American’s are different bred than them Japanese folk. We’re free, so you dun’t have to worry about that honor shit. Don’t gotta stick with me, be a free man.”

Hanzo shot Mccree a sharp glare, “While I agree Americans have little to no honor, would by your argument, still mean I am free to be bound to whatever I see fit?”

Mccree gawked for a moment in utter disbelief, this man whose english was a bit off and thick with his accent was playing on his words. If nothing else, a bit of bantering meant the man would live, that the wounds would be unable to hold him down. “Well that’s just rude- yer more sour than a sack o’ shit!” 

Hanzo’s head gave a little shake his eyes wide under furrowed brows, “Pardon?” 

“You heard me! Not all of us here are dishonorable!” 

“That is not what you said at first,” He tried to sit up but collapsed with a strange gurgle. “Your phrases are difficult to understand here.” 

With a frustrated sigh Mccree pinched the bridge of his nose, “Look, you just… get some rest- I’m gunna do some fishin’ so’s we can eat. In the mean time- juss… think about not havin’ to bind by word or whatever, okay?”

“It is a matter of honor-” Hanzo began.

“Stubborn mule,” Mccree sighed again and tugged his hat lower. With a huff he pushed himself upright and walked towards the exit, glancing back over his shoulder, “give a holler if you need something.” Now, Mccree couldn’t be sure, but he swore that the man looked sad to see him go. It was possible… He had no doubt this Hanzo fellow lived like he did, alone and always on the run. The fewer people around you or ones you held dear, the less someone could hurt you or them, it was just one of the many unspoken facts of being an outlaw.

Mccree spent the day fishing, catching enough to cook for both dinner and breakfast. He thought back to his time spent with the kind doctor Angela with amusement. He was sure she’d laugh if she saw him now- that or scolded him for not bringing the stranger in straight away. 

In the late afternoon, with a small bit of water boiled, and fish freshly cooked he approached Hanzo once again, quietly entering the tent and pulling off his hat with his free hand. “Howdy,” Mccree met the man’s gaze with a small smile, receiving a nod, their exchange like one who approached a wild horse.

“Howdy,” Hanzo returned, the words making Mccree’s lips spilt into a grin. 

“Sleep well darling?”

Again, the man’s furrowed brows went low, “I am not your darling.”

“Right- sorry, just a phrase I use.” Mccree finally sat, planting himself near to Hanzo’s whose body was covered in clammy sweat. “Time t’ change them bandages.” He nodded to the stained rangs.

“Ah-” Hanzo grunted, squirming and paling as he sat up. At first, he swatted Mccree away when the man leaned forward to help him up. When it was clear he could not sit up himself without furthering his injury, he sighed, and Mccree took that moment to help.

“Might hurt a bit- I ain’t got not balm but I got a bit of coneflower left that I stuck in that water.” Mccree worked with gentle hands, apologizing when the bandage would stick to the healing wound and pull.

“You do not need to do that.” Hanzo mumbled out, eyes on Mccree’s hands wherever they went. “The pain is minimal.”

“Yer a mighty fine liar- but you’ve got one tell-tale.” Mccree admired his bravery, having known companions in the past to moan and groan over much less. With moral fingers he pushed back black locks that stuck to the other’s sweaty forehead.  
At the touch, Hanzo leaned back slightly but made no comment beyond his own apology, that which made Mccree give an incredulous laugh, “Yeah well, ain’t got to be sorry ‘bout that. What you should be apologizin’ for is Ewars runnin’ away. Lost his trail thanks to you.” 

Silence overtook the tent, thick and awkward as Mccree finished cleaning and rewrapping the sticky wounds. “Eat, and I’ll go water down some whiskey fer ya to take off the edge.” Mccree nodded towards the fish, collected the soiled rags in the now empty container and stuffed his hat on his head. When the rags were being boiled in new water and he brought back the alcohol for Hanzo the man mumbled at the cantine.

“Scuse me?” Mccree crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight. He wasn’t sure what Hanzo had said, but with the odd tension from Mccree’s previous comment he was sure it was a complaint or insult.”

“I said, I’m sorry,” Hanzo hissed, sharply looking away from where Mccree stood. 

“Like horse shit you did. Ain’t what I heard.”

“It was in my mother tongue-” Hanzo dropped the attitude, weary defeat over taking his slumping shoulders, “Gomenasai… It means… I’m sorry.. I do not wish to be a burden on you and- I swear you shall be repaid. There is no man that I cannot track nor kill.” 

The sound of Mccree scratching at his beard and breath was all that filled the air for a moment while Mccree contemplated the new language moreover the vow. It was beautiful, one he’d never heard before. When Hanzo had said it, the man seemed more impassioned to the words than when he repeated it in english. “How’s you say it again?”

“I- what?” Hanzo peered at Mccree with confusion.

“That phrase- I’m sorry. Say it again.”

Hanzo stiffened, knuckles turning white as he clutched the canteen. “I am sorry,” his lips pulled back and his teeth gritted.

“No no, how you said it first- in yer mother language.” 

“I will not be made to beg!” Hanzo’s voice raised in fury, spittle flying with his words. Mccree was taken back, simply curious to hear the beautiful words again, not meaning to cause such a reaction. 

“You got it wrong! I ain’t- Oh hell!” Mccree gave a tug on his hat and spat to the side, “Why you gotta be so damn--! Forget it!” He turned on his heels fuming, ears burning red as he paced outside by the embers of the fire. “Goddamn hornet’s nest is what he is!” 

After minutes of fuming Mccree calmed himself down, chomping on the end of a cigarillo. He had to be calm- he might actually be stuck with that stubborn bastard for longer than he thought, if the few interactions were any indication. The man seemed to misunderstand word after word that spilled from his lips, but maybe it was his learning that made it so. 

Mccree added a few sticks to the dying fire and settled down. In the morning he’d change the bandages, check on the status of healing and decide whether or not Hanzo was fit enough to travel. He didn’t like to stay in one place for longer than a day, especially not after such an event. Though pulling three bullets from someone made them not what he’d consider ‘horse worthy’. 

What a goddamn mess.

The following morning Mccree was met with a glare. Grey eyes glossy and trying their best to bore holes into the gunslinger from a sharp pale face. 

“Looks like you slept well,” Mccree mumbled, half heartedly setting down the hot water and taking his seat. He sucked in a sharp breath and set his jaw, “Look- I ain’t gotta help you! So stop givin’ me that goddamn look and be civil.”

“I am being civil,” the man returned, grunting as he pushed himself up. That at least was improvement. He could sit up without help, though his face was ashened from effort. 

“Sure you are.” Mccree grumbled.

“Why do you glove your hand.” Hanzo asked mid way, fixated on the hand that was always covered by a fitted leather glove.

“Nosey, ain’t ya.” That response silenced Hanzo, but the man’s glare returned. He wasn’t sure which he prefered; questions, or the death look. “How do you feel?”

Hanzo’s look darkened for a moment before he sighed, eyes closing, “I am tired and feel like cow’s shit.”

Mccree blinked, had- he heard the man correctly? There was a split second of silence then he erupted in laughter, startling and upsetting Hanzo. 

“What,” Hanzo demanded, looking like a ruffled bird as he balled his fists, “Have I said something wrong?”

“No - no-- cow’s shit?” Mccree placed his hand on Hanzo’s shoulder, “Just ain’t expected one so pretty like yerself t’ say somethin’ quite like that! Cow shit!” 

“That’s what it is- is it not?” He brushed off Mccree’s touch, back straightening, glaring hard at the cackling man.

“Yer right! Certainly is, and feelin’ like cow shit sure is a hell of a way t’ feel…” Mccree grinned, feeling a glimmer of hope that his time spent with Hanzo would at least be somewhat amusing. “Hanzo- where’d you learn English?”

The man regarded him for a moment, seeming to carefully select his answer, “San Francisco.”

That explained quite a bit. While Mccree himself had never made his way out to San Francisco, he heard the stories of the town with the ‘barbarian coast’. It was a place full of immigrants, whore houses, gambling halls and drinkers. It was no rumor that there were areas within that the police refused to go because of the high risk of danger.

“Spent a while there then?” Mccree furthered, and then offered his own information at Hanzo’s hesitancy. “I grew up in New Mexico, learned Spanish from my pa, bit of Apache from my ma’ then english from them both.”

Hanzo raised a brow, “You are very learned then.”

Mccree shrugged off the compliment, only later allowing him surprise that the man had spare soft words on him. “Not really, juss ways to speak after all.”

“I suppose…” Hanzo paused to drink from the cantine Mccree offered out, “I have spent much time in the city of San Francisco. I learned from living.” 

“Bet it were tough at first. Always hard t’ deal with the fellow you can’t speak to.” Mccree offered a sympathetic smile, to which the Japanese stuck his nose up at.

“Hardly a challenge.”

Mccree let loose another bout of laughter, rocking forward and giving Hanzo a light pat on the back, “yer funnier than you let on Hanzo…”

“I do not intend to be ‘funny’,” He wrinkled up his nose and passed back the cantine. “Most men who laugh at me have found themselves dead.”

That remark said so coolly by the assassin sent a chill down Mccree’s spine and his laughter died immediately, “You dun’t say… suppose you not killin’ me then pays yer debt to me.”

“I do not intend to kill you.” Mccree waited for a ‘yet’ to be tagged onto the end of that sentence, but it never came. “I know my worth, down to every part of my body in American dollars, as well as yen in my country. Do not regard my debt to you as so light.”  
The whisky must have been settling warm in the man’s stomach for he closed his eyes and let out a rush of air, “I am tired.”

Mccree nodded, “I’ll let you get t’ sleepin’ then. The more you rest, the sooner we can hit the trail.”

“I understand,” Hanzo watched Mccree who looked back with confusion. There was an expectant quirk of the other’s black brows before he let out a frustrated growl and clumsily laid himself back down, pointedly turning his head away from Mccree. 

“Well then,” Mccree’s brow’s rose and he quietly slipped out from the tent, swearing he heard strange mutters following his leave.

 

As luck would have it Mccree found Hanzo to be well enough for travel. They would be unable to ride hard with two men and a pack on one horse, but Mccree knew the steed could do it, worst come to worst he could lead by the bridal and allow Hanzo to ride.  
Mccree assumed he’d have to lift the man up onto the saddle, but he mounted with relative ease and little grunting, holding onto the horn and sliding as much forward as allowed for Mccree to mount behind him. “Don’t be too alarmed- I’m juss gunna hold yer waist incase you get weak.”

Hanzo nodded, body ridged as the man’s arm snaked around his middle. “I have never done this.” He admitted with dissatisfaction, looking particularly lost on what he should do with his hands.

“Well sure you have! You were just out black the first time ‘round.” Mccree grinned and clucked at his horse who snorted and began a light canter. Mccree slid further back, settling half on the pack tied down and allowing Hanzo the comfort of the saddle. His rump would ache but at least he saved them both from great discomfort. 

“That hardly counts,” Hanzo’s lips quirked and Mccree cursed that he missed a chance of the man’s smile. 

“Well, this ain’t my first rodeo- not juss from you. Sometimes yer pardner’s horse gets shot and you have t’ share. Hell, beats being hogtied t’ the back.”

“Indeed…” 

The two lapsed into an eased silence as the glen broke to short grasses and eventually sage. Three miles into their journey Mccree forced their first stop. Despite Hanzo protesting, he could feel the man shake in his arms as he dismounted. He waited nearby, extending his hand out which Hanzo regarded narrowly then took, bracing himself as he slipped off. “My thanks.” He walked two steps away from the horse before sinking to his knees. 

Hanzo clutched at his side, near were two of the bullets had found their mark. The bandage would have been hidden under the borrowed shirt which had, to Mccree’s amazement been slightly small on the man- however, the fact they'd be unable to see if the  
wound opened or not hadn’t stopped mccree from peering in question. “I- am fine.”

Mccree nodded, digging into his pack to find the half empty flask and lightly tapping Hanzo’s shoulder in offer. He watched him take two greedy gulps before handing back the canister. “I reckon we could make it out to Bannrock before the sun’s completely dead... It ain’t an ideal town and we’re gunna hafta lie real low, but least we can hole up in some room- maybe get you a horse.” He spoke as he thought, searching again through the saddle bags to count through his stack of cash. His wins from the town’s poker games had added significantly, and from that, they might be able to buy a cheap horse- or at least rent one- and a set of clothing for the man and provisions.

“We are not going to Bannrock,” Hanzo pushed himself up to stand, “We should return to Faircross.

The suggestion made Mccree choke on the smoke he’d been puffing and after a moment of hacking he pointed at the man with the burning cigarillo, “Like hell we are! We’re both marked men there!”

“We should be heading to finish your job on Ewars. You intend to kill him, did you not?” 

“Well, yes. But Ewars ain’t gunna be there. There’s no way he’d go back to Faircross anytime soon. He’s a lost man now and-”

“My horse, my bow, my gun-everything is in Faircross. I agree Ewars is not there, but his men will be and they will know better than a cold trail where he will hide out.”

Mccree took a few long drags, “What were you thinkin’.” Hanzo looked surprised that he was actually being considered and for a moment he blinked before clearing his throat.

“We go back, as I suggested but in the cover of night. I know his home, where his gang hides out. Once I have collected my items we sneak in.”

“Sneak in how?” Mccree gwaffed but then the other man smirked and he recalled Hanzo sneaking in the dead of night on the second floor to his hotel building. Had Mccree not already been away he wouldn’t have heard the scratches. “You sure you ain’t gunna be spotted gettin’ in.”

“We can run a distraction if needs be, we will assess once we have arrived.”

Mccree regarded the steel look in Hanzo’s eyes and his determination. He had to admit, if anyone could pull off such a stealthy heist it might be this man- but he was in poor health, and would be against at least a dozen of Ewars’s men. “I ain’t near as stealthy as you, but I sure as hell can follow once you get in.”

“It will be done then,” Hanzo nodded in agreement. “We will single one or two out, make their information bleed from their bodies.”

“Colorful way o’ puttin’ it,” Mccree stomped out his smoke and pulled off his hat to shake then smooth out his hair. “Well, it’s a half baked plan, but I recon if yer feelin’ well enough we can pull it off.”

“How far away are we from Faircross,” Hanzo’s eyes wandered the length of Mccree’s body, settling on how he mused his hair and fixed his hat on top his head. 

“Two days, maybe three dependin’ on how yer feelin’.”

“I assure you I will be plenty healed by then.” He suddenly turned and strode back to the horse. 

“Alrighty- there ain’t no shame if you ain’t square by then though.” Mccree grabbed his horses reins who made a point to try to avoid Hanzo mounting him. 

“Square?” Hanzo climbed atop the saddle and slid forward, clutching onto the horn once again. 

“Never heard that before?”

“I have not. I make a point to not be around others- especially when I might be weakened.” 

Mccree hummed and hopped on after him, “You know… there’s no shame in lettin’ someone else help you.” He reached around to take the reins, feeling the other man shrink within himself and stiffen at the contact.  
“Shame, no- but danger?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a classic western tale if there's not someone tied to the trail tracks, am I right? 
> 
> Also fam, when I said I did a lot of research I'm not even joking. If you're interested on of the sources I used is 'As we saw Them", it's about the first interactions of Japan with America, and then their first embassy sent to America. Heckin' fascinating if you want to give it a read!  
> Also San Fransisco was *cough* barbaric. While I've messed with the time line a bit on that, the Barbarian coast's history is a fun read too! Also might give you some extra insight onto why Hanzo speaks how he does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duo ride back into town, seeking anything to help Mccree track down his target. Between bathing and learning to properly roll one's bedroll, there's plenty of misunderstandings and rising feelings.

By the end on the day, the pair made camp, Hanzo doing what he could to help, gritting his teeth and proving to Mccree he would be well enough to complete what they intended in Faircross. 

“I will be taking my leave to bathe now,” Hanzo half bowed to Mccree after the small tent was strung up and kindling for the fire was gathered. 

“Bathe?” Mccree snorted, “Where? Ain’t got no town for miles- in the river? That’s gunna be mighty cold pardner.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes and began to undo the button on his borrowed shirt, “It would be well for you to wash as well. You American’s are all so filthy.”

“E-Exucse me?! Like you ain’t better!” Mccree huffed with indignation, feeling his cheeks burn as he glanced at the state of the dirt under his nails. 

“I strive to keep a well practice of personal grooming. My ill fate has kept me from it too long. Back in Japan we bathed every day, if not twice.”

“Twice?!” 

Hanzo nodded, “I shall wash your clothing at least- if you will not bathe.”

“Not- Oh hell’s bells!” Mccree sputtered and shoved up to stand, sweeping off his hat and throwing it on the saddle. “I’ll make myself clean ye goddamn prince if it’ll please ya!”

Hanzo hid his smirk by turning his head and striding over the the river’s edge. Mccree silently cursed at Hanzo. What a prick, acting as though he was better for being able to bathe everyday. Mccree didn’t have that luxury and had been born with a layer of dirt on him. Desserts weren’t rich with water, and water was meant for drinking not for spoiling and pampering. 

When Hanzo had removed the shirt, shoes, trousers and stood only in a wrapped undergarment Mccree’s swears turned to cursing of a different kind. Nearly naked without shame he walked into the river’s brisk waters and began picking up the soft sandy earth and scrubbing at this flesh. Mccree swore he’d never need anything more beautiful in his life. He’d seen the man's chest many times from taking care of his wounds but now it was different, sensual and in full blown moon light. He was riddled with other scars along his well toned body- muscles so well formed in places Mccree didn’t know they could be so well trained. 

Though, all together, the most enchanting part of Hanzo was the grin that plastered his face. It was nearly mad, one of unbridled joys yet iron restraint. In another life, perhaps the man might have been laughing brightly as he plunged in and out of the water’s surface as though he was a diving swan watering his back. But, life’s cruelties and whatever past he was raised in had trained his joy to be silent. 

Mccree watched for some time in appreciation before the realization of what he was actually doing- that being him watching a naked man bathe himself- hit him in full awkward force and he in quiet embarrassment moved to where he could not view Hanzo and took to the task of washing himself in the brisk water. How the other man looked so pleased within the cold temperatures, he had no idea.

When the two had finished, roughly around the same time, they retired around the campfire, Mccree stringing up the water washed clothing to dry near the flames warmth, and giving Hanzo the sleeping blanket to wrap himself in while he took his red serape and drape it over his waist. They sat in silence, Hanzo’s eyes continuously drooping and his head nodding as he fought off sleep. Although Mccree had suggested the man just get some shut eye, he refused and insisted he wait until their clothing was dry enough to dress.

When Hazno shed his blanket Mccree looked respectfully away, watching the man’s feet halt from the corner of his eye.

“Am I that dispicable to look upon?” Hanzo asked, his voice icey and drawing Mccree’s look of shock towards him.

“N-No I just thought I’d be giving you yer privacy-” Mccree trailed off hopelessly. Hanzo met his gaze with scrutiny. His sharp features highlighted by the flames casting deep shadows, his eyes slits as they glared. 

Mccree’s explanation was met with a hard ‘hmph’, as Hanzo collected his clothing and dressed, Mccree turning his gaze once again.

When they did sleep, Mccree was restless and it wasn’t until the morning he figured out why. 

Hanzo seemed to be faring much better than days previous. He was quick to make coffee and pack the horse, though Mccree had to pull everything off and reroll the blankets. Hanzo had met the action with a sharp look of annoyance but stood as Mccree instructed. “Roll ‘er up like so-” He folded the two long ends of the blanket towards the middle the began a tight roll with quick hands. “It saves space and keeps the dust out of the inside where yer clothes are.”

Hanzo nodded, “I see, I apologize for my ignorance.” He gave a small bow in apology which had Mccree grinnined. 

“Ain’t nothin’ to worry about! Can’t help it if yer a tenderfoot! We’ll work that out of you in no time!” He clapped Hanzo on the shoulder and hesitated over the straps to secure the blanket wrap. They had time- perhaps he should let Hanzo try. Should the man need help he could always guide him… “Here- now let’s see you do it!” Mccree tossed over the roll which Hanzo caught with a cocked brow. 

“What does that mean- Tenderfoot. It is not the first time I have been called it.” Hanzo kneeled and unfolded the pack before dutifully repeating what Mccree had shown him. 

“It’s what we call city folk,” Mccree rubbed the back of his neck as he watched. Hazno was doing a fine job, but he still felt the need to help. “People who ain’t used to living off the road and puttin’ in hard work.”

Hanzo scoffed, “Only half of that is true for me.”

“I suppose yer right.” he answered easily, “I can tell you’re a man with integrity- a hard workin’ man.” He knelt next to Hanzo who began to move away at Mccree nearness, but the gunslinger bid him stay by grabbing his wrist.

“The trick is in yer fingers, gotta tuck it under tight- lemme show you.” Mccree chuckled as he manually took Hanzo’s hands and placed them on the blanket, working them like puppet’s limbs as the rolled. “You’ll get it in no time.” Hanzo was warm next to him, their arms crossing, pale and deep tan. The other’s skin was beautiful, and Mccree blushed to think of how close he was to his face, and how beautiful he would become once the bruising healed. His hands lifted from Hanzo’s that worked slowly at tucking the blanket into a tight roll. Fingertips stayed in light contact with pale skin, chastely brushing as his heart pounded. Beside him Hanzo stilled, head tilting and he look to Mccree with curiosity, drawing in near. 

Still beautiful- even with bruising and the broken scabbed lip, full and parting to draw in a breath. Grey eyes as lively as lighting breaking through clouds- everything about Hanzo felt like a heavenly visage and Mccree had half a mind to connect their lips, understand the man’s anger and taste words that the other didn’t know.

But Mccree was decent- smart even - and cleared his throat before the other had a chance to figure out what was happening and head-butt him, or perform some other quick painful move. “See, expert already!” He stood and shuffled over the the horse, busying himself with checking the straps on the saddle, doing anything to hide the shake in his hands and red cheeks. 

Soon Hanzo was at his side, pushing the roll into Mccree’s hands to strap to the horse. He waited then mounted with swiftness, sliding forward for Mccree to join him. 

“Seems like yer feelin’ much better today.” Mccree offered, arms around Hanzo to take the reins. Hanzo said nothing, only grunting in return. Their ride started as the others had gone, Hanzo stiff, Mccree rigid as he tried to stay distant from the other rider; though unusually Hanzo relaxed first, and leaned his back into Mccree. 

The man must have been growing tired, Mccree thought, and allowed him his rest against his chest. He wasn’t going to complain one bit, heart growing light and warm at the contact. “Do you need us to stop?” He asked, after all if Hanzo was suddenly tired he could faint at any moment. That thought lead Mccree to quickly wrap an arm around his middle as he did on the first day of their ride.

“No, I am fine.” Hanzo returned, voice sounding a bit broken, body heavier against Mccree’s as they rode.

“If you change yer mind…” Mccree trailed off, eyes leaving the road in front of them to stair at the back of Hanzo’s head, inspecting the red on his ears that must have come from the sun’s rays. He made a small mental note to ensure they purchased a hat before his ears blistered. Perhaps he should offer Hanzo his own.

The thought shocked him and he realized with a start why he’d slept so restlessly. The man sitting against him had been the cause, no doubt. The sight of him naked in the moonlight, then how damned adorable he looked trying not to fall asleep by the fire. The aching in his chest must have been the desire to hold him or something of the like. It had been so long since Mccree shared gentle affection with anyone, and his care for Hanzo had turned his soft side loose from the cage he tried to keep it locked in.   
He realized he’d been unable to dress the wounds on Hanzo which must have explained the desire to touch his hands to ‘aid’ in rolling the pack. Mccree softly scolded himself for being a touch starved bastard and tried to think about the road they were on, think about the plan they’d form once back in Faircross, think about what Ewars had done to his outlaw family. He tried to think of anything but the man he’d seen naked that now rode so snuggly against him, how his chest heaved from the shock of cold water but he grinned regardless. He especially tried to not think about how said man might look naked sprawled before him, chest heaving with that grin from Mccree thrusting into him, having to face the man’s wrath from what wonderful things they did, how blissfully he could break Hanzo - take the challenge… 

He tried to think about anything but the beautiful man pressed so close and failed, biting the inside of his cheek every time the thought would surge hunger through him, sliding back away only to have Hanzo fill the space so snuggly pressed against him. 

The pair arrived at Faircross half a day earlier than expected. Much like the first trip taken Mccree camped on the outskirts, rested then confirmed with Hanzo their plan. He would be going in first. The man had rented room from an elderly couple on the far northern side. They themselves were from the Belgian province, and agreed to the housing agrangment at three dollars a day. Mccree nearly choked when Hanzo had told him the price, but at such a cost the two elders would keep quiet and were apt to believe 

Hanzo’s story about being a wealthy business venturer instead of an assassin. Hanzo would return to the house, fetch his belongings and horse and meet Mccree outside town once again. 

Half of Mccree believed that Hanzo was going to set him up, thinking back to the possibility of the man being a decoy sent by Ewars and now he was going to fetch more men to take out Mccree for good.   
He hardly let himself relax, gun at the ready, hiding in the brush and gazing into the darkness of night. When finally, the sound of hooves approached he eased the six shooter from his holster and waited-listening.

The sound told of no more than just a single rider, and Mccree’s eyes, further attuned to the darkness saw only one person in the saddle. The person eventually halted by their meeting place- an inconspicuous grouping of three trees, and dismounted, patting at the horses neck and cooing in another language.

It was at that point Mccree was certain the rider was Hanzo. He holstered the gun, but kept his hand nearby just in case. “Were you followed?” He asked into the night, softly enough to not startle the man into action.  
“No,” Hanzo replied, and Mccree felt his eyes on him in the darkness. It bothered him that the other seemed to track him so easily.

“Well, let’s get a move on then lil’ doggy.” Mccree finally let out a breath that he’d been holding, unhitching his horse and mounting it shortly after Hanzo was on his own saddle. After the days spent sharing proximity, it felt nearly strange to have space atop a horse once more. 

“That means we go, correct?” Hanzo asked and Mccree swore he heard a light chuckle in the darkness. 

“Pretty much,” Mccree returned, nudging his horse forward. 

“Good, if you had been implying I was a bitch, I might have thought to hit you,” Hanzo followed by his side, their shoulder height even. 

The man’s horse was a bit larger than Mccree’s, black in color and trotted with a beautiful spring to his step. From how the horse move Mccree knew it had a wild side, an uneven temperament, a bit like its master. “Now why would you think that?” 

“The two words are the same, are they not?” Hanzo spoke matter-of-factly as if being called by such a name was normal.

“Well,” Mccree frowned, wondering how the other was so calm about it. If someone had called him so boldly he’d have drawn on them or at least challenged them. “I suppose so, but they ain’t the same. See ‘get a move on’ that’s just a phrase but callin’ someone a bitch or imply their mother is- now that there’s fightin’ words.”

“I see,” Hanzo nodded, “That is what I assumed. My apology, we should be silent- should we not?”

Mccree opened his mouth to ask how he was so casual but snapped his lips closed. After that, in a moment of thought he recalled where Hanzo had picked up English. It had been San Francisco, and while he knew little before Mccree was beginning to think he was understanding the city more and more from Hanzo’s use of language. 

 

Ewars Adamson’s estate for business was one of the larger buildings within the town. It stood on the east end surrounded by other buildings, making it difficult to get near without being spotted. The pair wisely left their horses a block away and carried through shadows and alleyways to avoid being seen. 

The building itself was two stories tall, many windows glowing with light and showing either the shadows of men or those who were within. It was build from strong bricks and decorated with ornate wood carvings. Had it not been the height is was, nor surrounded by a tall iron fence it might have been mistaken for a high society bank. 

At viewing the building Mccree’s doubts about their plan finally set it. He turned to his partner and softly voiced his doubts. “The place is crawling with men Hanzo, I’ve already seen five in on the lawn, then seven just through the windows. Buildin’ that size there’s gotta be least thirty men.”

Hanzo’s brows lifted in an arrogant fashion, “I shall lead this expedition, and should you feel you are incapable of following, I will go alone.”

The offer wasn’t unseemly. If Hanzo went alone and was caught, then Mccree would be able to sneak off and no one would be wiser of him ever being on the property. He could return to the original trail, though now near a week old, and pick up tracking that way. But that was a cowards way. He felt shame in simply entertaining the idea of leaving Hanzo behind to be beat by the men once more, and ultimately killed.

“After you darlin’,” Mccree made a small bow to which Hanzo wrinkled up his nose at. He could tell the other thought about a quip back but instead walked a few paces neared to the buildings edge. “So how you figure we’re gettin’ in?”

Hanzo gestured to the tree they stood under, it’s branches thick and long, extending over the wall. The man pulled a black scarf over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed and jumped, hands grabbing on a branch and heavign himself up silently. Mccree knew the man had strength, and he figured he himself could do such a move- but with far more effort. Hanzo was up and moving stealthily through the tree without disturbing a single leaf with such fluidity it left Mccree gawking.

“Wait until I have whistled for you,” Hanzo whispered down, taking his time to track out his path. From the shadows of their hiding place, Mccree was able to see quite a bit of the lawn, and watched in admiration as Hanzo dropped down and maneuvered around shrubs, stone fixtures and barrels to reach the far corner opposite of where they had been at. 

Minutes passed with no sound, no signal and Mccree, having lost sight of Hanzo began to wonder once again if was a set up. It would be all too easy to betray him in this position.   
The sight that caught his eye was small, but began to glow brighter and burn with a heady scent of floral. A bush at the far end of the lawn had begun to smoke, the roots slowly catching fire and spreading up towards their blossoming branches.   
“The Hell?!” One of the men near the back gate cursed, stomping over to the group near the burning bush. “What’s this!” He pointed in fury to the tiny flames, more smoke than anything else.   
“Well don’t look at me!” A fellow in a blue tweed vest and a bowler hat shouted back, stomping out the tiny flames and quickly looking around. “We’re under attack! Someone tryin’ t-’  
“You expect me t’ believe that?” The other snorted, stooping and picking up the end of a cigarette, now squashed, “This here’s yer attack Mr. Folwer! Yer own stoopid-ty!!” The man flicked the butt at the others forehead and turned with a scoff.  
“W-Weren’t me!” Mr. Fowler protested again, “I snuffed it!”

The other laughed and Fowler began arguing until the the whole group was engaged in the fight. The argument Mccree noted went something along the lines of ‘if not you, then it was that bastard’ and soon all five men who were in that general area was pushing and cussing at each other, every man eager to fight. He supposed that’s why they were so welcome in Ewars Adamsons crew, shameless and eager to get their hands dirty.

From nearby, a soft birds whistle caught his attention. Hanzo had joined him from across the fence and was gesturing to the back gate, now unguarded, for Mccree to sneak through. He gave a silent low whistle of appreciation for the man’s cleverness and quickly made his way into the property. 

The pair squated against the building, the fight breaking up as others joined in from inside, yelling at them to quit acting so dumbly, and get back to their post. The grounds were watched once more, and the causality of the night’s air resumed. Mccree raised a brow to Hanzo who scanned the man with contemplation. 

“Rope,” Was all he said, and Mccree unwound his lasso from his hip that he’d carried in for the occasion. Hanzo draped the rope over his shoulders and gave another look out onto the lawn. They were settled in a deeply shaded area, ignored, and before Mccree could offer a suggestion or ask what was next he was scaling the side of the brick building. His fingers curling into what felt like impossibly small grips and lighting on the edge of the windowsill. 

So, Mccree thought with dreaded amazement, that was how he had snuck into his hotel room. Hanzo procured a small blade and wedged it between the slots in the glass, working on unlatching the widow then disappearing inside. Mere moments passed, and a rope was dropped down for Mccree. He sucked in a breath, taking a look behind him to ensure he wouldn’t be spotted and quickly took hold and climbed up to the window. 

Hanzo waited at the top, scarf drop as he gripped Mccree’s hand and forearm and hauled him over the window’s edge and into the bright room. The first thing he saw was a man laying face down against the hardwood flooring. The second, was Hanzo’s smirk.   
The man looked so god-damned proud and smug Mccree had to snort. He’d snuck into plenty of places before, Hanzo wasn’t special. He’d be sure to tell him a few of his own escapades once this was over, just so he knew. He could have climbed the wall just as easily as Hanzo, got into the trees just has he had... probably. 

Mccree wouldn’t admit his pride took a bruising at watching the man dictate what should have been his break in. After all, Ewars Adamson had wronged him, this should have been his mission. 

“I got it from here darlin’,” Mccree straightened his hat and tried to look as casual and tough as possible when he faced Hanzo, the man already having closed the window and drawn the curtains.

Once more Hanzo sized Mccree up then he shrugged, “You would blend in better than I. The office is across the hall, three doors down. It will be locked-”

“Ain’t a problem,” Mccree grinned and tipped his hat. 

“How shall I know if you’re in danger,” Hanzo took a step after him.

“I’ll uh- call yer name or somethin’.” Hanzo didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded and watched as Mccree pulled his hat to better obscure his eyes and slip out of the doorway. 

The second floor was fairly empty, Mccree noticed one man closing a door behind him, but beyond that, the noise all came from down the stairway. Mccree grinned and walked up to the door that Hanzo had said would be Ewars Adamson’s office. He tested the door knob and was startled to find it unlocked. Sweeping off his hat he pressed an ear to the door and heard soft humming from the inside. His heart leapt to his throat- if there was already someone in the room, that room specifically being Adamson’s office which was supposed to be locked, it was possible that Ewars Adamson was inside. 

The fool should have kept running, but instead returned to his place of business. Maybe he thought that Mccree would ride further on, but luck had called him back to this place with Hanzo. Mccree’s heart hammered in his chest and he gripped the doorknob, drew his colt, and counted back from three before he threw open the door.

The silver barrel pointed right to the man’s face, and Mccree wasn’t sure which of the two of them looked more surprised; himself, or the clean shaven young man with short blond hair, a scar across his left cheek and wide green eyes. 

“Shit,” Mccree gritted his teeth, closing the door blindly and keeping his gun trailed on the young man. “Don’t even think about movin’.” 

The man nodded, and raised his hands up slowly. He was sitting at a large polished wood desk, ink pen in one hand and papers spread out before him “What you want?” His voice quaked slightly and Mccree cursed under his breath. He was nothing more than a goddamned bookie. 

“Where Ewars get off to,” Mccree’s face was back to imposing and strode up menacingly to the young man, shoving the gun in his face. 

“I-I don’t know!” 

“Keep yer voice down.” Mccree hissed, glancing back to the door. He really ought to lock that, incase someone should come wandering in. “Someone ought to know- who?”

“I-I.. Maybe Warts erm, ah Mr. Johana… He usually knows these things.”

“Where’s he at?” He demanded, trying to act as scary as possible, even though he felt like a fool for jumping the gun and ending up with a quaking tenderfoot. For a moment Mccree took his eyes off the young man, looking back towards the door and moving to go back and lock it. It was in that instance that the the other took his chance, picking up the nearest item and throwing it at Mccree’s head. 

The bottle of whiskey flew over his hat as he ducked out of the way and the glass shattered against the wall. Mccree had just enough time to utter another curse before helunged across the desk to grab at the man pulling open a drawer that undoubtedly held a gun inside. There was only a small scuffle as Mccree was able to easily over power the scrawny bookkeeper and gain the gun, leaving the other panting and pale faced in the chair. 

“Now what I’d say about-” Mccree’s soft growl was caught off by a knock at the door.

“Everything okay in thar Mr. Burrow?” A twangy voice asked through the solid wood door and Mccree crouched behind the desk, keeping his gun trailed on the bookkeeper.

“Y-Yes everything’s fine!” He croaked out, voice breaking like a pubescent.

“You sure ‘bout that? Heard a smash.. Anyway- got a telegram from Mr. Adamson, mind if I come in?”

“No- I’m awful busy!” He quickly spoke but Mccree mouthed with a smart jab to the ribs to ‘let him in’, and the young man nodded, “Come in!”

“Wall make up yer mind!” The other man laughed and entered the room, holding an envelope in his hand, an unlit cigar bouncing on his lip. “Looks like Mr. Adamsons doin’ trade in Copperfield.” The new comer only got four paces into the room before Mccree was up and pointing a gun at his chest.

“Don’t make a move.” Mccree commanded, “One word out of either of you and I pull the trigger.” 

The new man looked to the book keeper and frowned, “What you git yourself-”

“What I say?!” Mccree cocked back the hammer and trailed it up to the mans head. He swallowed in response and raised his hands slowly, “Good, now drop that gun on your hip to the ground- slowly-- thank you kindly…” He had to think fast. Any gunshots and the whole building full of men would be alerted and the chances of himself and Hanzo getting out alive were slim, but he couldn’t rightly tie up two men at once for as soon as he stopped to tie one man, the other would bolt. Then there was a problem of the men knowing he was here now, looking for Ewars Adamson. They were likely to telegram their boss after he left, and the man would once again flee. 

It was a mess, and all because he didn’t look before leaping. “Alright gentlemen, now I really don’t want t’ hafta kill either of you.” and he didn’t. Mccree felt dread build up in his gut as it seemed to be all the more clear that the only way to get out of this mess was to kill the men and sneak out. Dead men couldn’t speak. If he took something of value, when the bodies were discovered at least they’d think it was a robbery of sorts. He began to work out the details of his plan as he droned on, trying to think of any possible way to escape unnoticed and without bloodshed. 

It was at the end of his sentence that the door, already ajar was pushed open then closed by a black dressed form. Mccree’s gun instantly went to the figure and his finger twitched- not enough to pull the trigger- but enough to have been a response. It was Hanzo- uncalled and swift as he stepped up to the man nearest the door, holding his hands up with the telegram. 

Mccree was almost glad to see him, until he took hold of the telegram messengers neck and gave it a firm twist. There was a sickening crack and a final expel of sound from the man that was muted by Hanzo’s hand over his mouth. Then, Hanzo let the body drop, head twisted at a strange angle and limp - certainly without life. 

“Oh hell-” the book keeper watched with a grey face, and then sharply looked to Mccree, “Oh god don’t let him kill me!”

Mccree was no longer the threat- he had merely swung around the guns, but Hanzo had killed without word or warning. The young man scrambled to his feet and Mccree made a grab for him, covering his mouth just as he let out a scream. “Goddamn man! What’s wrong with you?!” He hissed at Hanzo who looked collected and calm.

“Silence him.” He glared at the man, “Or the others will hear.”

“I ain’t killin’ him if that’s what you mean!” Hanzo seemed to be shocked then nearly disgusted.

“Give him to me.”

“You ain’t killin’ him neither!”

“I won’t kill him!” Hanzo bit back, lips pulling back like a fierce tiger in a quiet snarl. 

The man with Mccree’s tanned glove clamped over his mouth looked from Hanzo to what he could see of Mccree. He squirmed and plead as Hanzo neared. “N-Now hold up.” He couldn’t think of any reason why Hanzo would want the man other than to snap his neck quietly. “I’ll hand him over- but remember, I own you-Until yer honor is sated. You ain’t gunna kill this man cause I says so.” He knew it was a low thing to say, but it felt like the only way to reason with Hanzo. The man seemed to hold the promise and his honor above all else. It felt dirty to bargain like this, but he had to. 

Hanzo’s eyes darkened. For a moment, nothing was said nor done, his brows twitching like a water on a hot surface, lips curling in an angry dance before he simply spat off to the side of Mccree and nodded. 

“Now don’t make a sound pardner, or my friend here is likely t’ do you in like yer friend, okay?” Mccree warned, making sure the man gave a whimper and his own agreement before he removed his hand from the others mouth. He wasn’t free from Mccree’s grasp for more than half a second when Hanzo’s fist flew out towards him, striking him at his temple with two knuckles. The bookkeeper went limp and Mccree just barely caught him before he slumped onto the desk. “The hell! I told-”

“He’s not dead,” Hanzo snapped, turning a cold shoulder and slinking back to the door. 

Mccree checked, ear to the man’s chest, relieved to find it still beating. Hanzo had nearly knocked him unconscious. But there was still the matter of him waking up and sending word to his employer. “Hanzo- lend me yer face scarf.” the gunslinger brightened up with an idea. “We’ll gag him and sneak him out with us- take him a few miles out on the road and then turn ‘im loose t’ find his way back. Whaddya think?-Hanzo?” Mccree flinched as a black wad of fabric hit the side of his face- painless but marginally alarming. He made quick work of tying it around the man’s mouth to gag him and searched around until he found some material to fashion into hand ties to bind their new captive.   
Once the young man - who was nothing more than a scrawny mass - had been tied and throw over Mccree’s shoulder, the gunslinger walked over to the door where Hanzo had his ear pressed to the solid wood. The pair waited a few moments, then they fled. 

Oddly enough, leaving was much less a hassle than Mccree thought it would be. Hanzo lead them to a place where they could easily climb the fence and the unconscious body was passed between them. In what seemed like hardly any time and no hitches, they were riding out of town, bookkeeper properly hog tied and stashed on the back of Mccree’s horse.

However, despite the operation having run so smoothly, the air around Hanzo seemed to crackle with an angry energy, one that had Mccree’s gut twisting and putting him on the defense the moment he opened his mouth. “Look, I didn’t know you weren’t gunna kill him- so why you actin’ like there's a bee in yer bonnet?”

Hanzo snorted like a horse and stuck out his chin, heels tapping his horses side so that it rode just ahead of Mccree. 

“What, you mad cause you didn’t get t’ kill him too?” In the darkness Mccree just made out Hanzo’s fists clenching angrily.

“No.” The answer was said through tightly clenched teeth. 

“Then why you acting so strung up!” Mccree never received an answer, and after the minutes dragged on he grumbled out a ‘fine’ and lit himself one of the few remaining cigarillos in his possession.

The two rode through the night, Mccree grateful that the moon and stars shone bright enough to allow them travel. He knew that with the knot in his stomach and the feeling that lingered from Hanzo, neither of them would be sleeping. He couldn’t figure out what had set the man off. It was possible that it was just who he was- always glaring, always angry, killing without mercy. It was possible… but the Hanzo before the raid at Ewars Adamsons seemed so much more collected, far more solem then furiously indignant. He liked that Hanzo- beautiful as he rolled the blanket dutifully, scaled the tree’s tall branches- beautiful even with the bruises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the misunderstandings and sexual tensions.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly just a lot of talking this chapter while the boys start to figure things out!   
> Thank you for sticking by! More exciting updates to come! Yeehaw?

The sun had began to peak up over the desert’s hills when Mccree had called for them to stop. They were near sweet watered spring, enough greenery for their horses to feed, and for them to water and rest before continuing. The book keeper had long since waken up and gave a relieved groan when Mccree took him off the horse and propped him up in the shade of a large boulder and ungaged him.

“What’s your name?” 

“Y-You son-of-a-bitch!” 

“Odd name, but I ain’t yer momma who named you so...” Mccree shrugged and turned back to get the empty canteen from his horse and refill it in the crips water’s flow. At the bank, Hanzo was already doing the same, the water sacks next to him awaiting their turn to be refilled. “Feelin’ alright?” Mccree asked the man, who nodded and continued his work. The angry energy emulating from the man had long since diminished, but he hadn’t looked directly at Mccree since they escaped the place of business. 

“Alright you son-of-a-bitch,” Mccree knew that wasn’t the man’s name, but found pleasure in a joke. “Stop yer gabbling and drink.” He knelt down and tipped the water to the other’s parched lips, letting him drink his fill and then going back to get a bit of jerky for him to consume. He riffled through his side pack, frowning when the left side was empty and pacing over to the right pocket. Supplies where getting low, and they were more than likely a day or more from whatever city Adamson was hole up in- Mccree still hadn’t read over the telegrams address. 

“Mccree,” Hanzo’s voice sounded from behind him. In response he turned back to the river and saw with shock, Hanzo, kneeling in the shallow brook washing himself. The man had no sense of decency! Mccree blushed and quickly turned his head away from the sight of raw wounds and beautiful pale skin.

“Whut,” He asked gruffly, voice catching his his throat, requiring a small cough to clear.

“There is food in my satchel. The man may eat.” Mccree nodded and did an awkward backward shuffle around Hanzo’s horse to reach his pack. “Other side.”

Of course it was on the other side. The gunslinger kept his eyes cast down as much as he could, retrieving a wrapped parcel of what was dried meats and returned to their captive book keeper. “Open wide you-son-of-”

“That ain't my name!” The man sighed and frowed, “It’s.. it’s Willis.”

“Well then Willis,” Mccree grinned, ripping off a piece and stuffing it in his mouth. 

Willis chewed, swallowed and asked for more water, “What’s with that naked man over there?” He gestured with his head to the small stream of water where Hanzo was, barely visible from their position. 

“Well I recon he’s washin’ himself. Ain’t polite to stare,” Mccree snorted and rolled his eyes.

“No, I know what he’s doin’ I mean- what’s with him! Why you two together? He your slave, you said you owned him. Slavery ain’t been legal for years.”

Mccree blinked, “I…” He didn’t recall exactly what he had said to Hanzo, but at the man bringing up the moment it rang clearly in his mind. “No, he just owes me his life. Saved his ass from gettin’ run over by a train.”

Willis chewed on another piece of jerky, not bothering to swallow completely as he began to talk. “I remember some of the boys talkin’ about him! That Japanese fellow caused a big problem with one of our suppliers! We hired him for a job and then he killed five of our men!”

Mccree’s blood chilled, “What you mean by that?”

“Well- seen, he’s like a mercenary of sorts. Kills for money- you know them kind. But Boss didn’t like what he was chargin’, so the boss, he figures- set up the pay point and ask him for another meeting to offer another, so’s the man comes unarmed- then our boys jumped him!”

It took a moment to untangle the web of thoughts that had quickly appeared in Mccree’s mind, images of the wounds and fresh bruises- the nasty near death state he’d found Hanzo in on the tracks. “So- yer boss just… offers to pay a man then don't?”

“Well- see Boss had to give that man some ‘con-fe-den-tial like information for the kill, and he didn’t want that man goin’ round blabbering about it after the job wer’ done. First time boss sent three men to do the job. He-” Willis gestured again to Hanzo,   
“killed all of them, Sent back their dead bodies on their horses as a message. Then my boss all smart like sends him the message. Hell, I wrote that one myself, didn’t know who it was goin’ to until now… Hey where you going?” 

Mccree stood and walked back toward Hanzo who, much to his relief, was dressed and combing through his wet hair with an ivory comb. “Hey- got a minute t’ talk?”

Hanzo glanced at him, eyes stopping at the shoulder before he gave a curt nod.

“I was talkin’ t’ Willis over there.” He hitched his thumb to the young man over his shoulder.

“I heard.”

“O-Oh uh,” Mccree fumble for a moment then took off his hat, holding it in his hands. “I didn’t… realize what I dun said t’ you last night, and I’m mighty sorry for it.”

Mccree waited, looking up from where he’d cast his eyes down at their dusty shoes. Hanzo was dressed in a grey cotton shirt, a silky yellow scarf hanging around his neck waiting to be tied and tucked into his blue embroidered vest. He looked smarty dressed, and while he had black leather chaps that began at his knees and senseable pants and boots for riding, he still looked more like a tender foot than a cow-poke. 

Hanzo regarded him, eyes traveling up to his nose, then looking away sharply with a casual shrug.

“I-I mean it Hanzo.” Mccree reached out with a hand, placing it against Hanzo’s arm like he was a horse that might spook, “I don’t own you or anything like that. Hell, if you wanted to ride off right now, I’d consider us square and even. I always have. Besides, with you comin’ in last night - that saved my life. I ain’t had a single idea how I was gonna get out of that binde- So… Thank you and I uh.. I’m awful sorry about what I said t’ you.” 

Hanzo’s head tilted to the side as if he was contemplating something. Perhaps this is where they would part, and should they, Mccree would honestly admit that the man had done a great deal for him. “No. It was not equal.” There was a small lift in his voice and then the assassin turned away, back to Mccree as he began to wrap the comb in another cloth and place it with great reverence back into a small pouch hidden under a carpet bag that was lashed to his saddle. 

“Well- that’s up t’ you pard’ner.” Mccree smiled, replacing his hat and feeling a great relief at the conversation’s outcome. “I’m going back to see our little Willis over there.”

Hanzo nodded, and Mccree turned to leave, just catching the soft ‘thank you’ that left the other’s lips. Instinctually he turned back with his smile, catching - finally- Hanzo’s glance, and giving a wink and a tip of his hat, turning back and striding away with purpose. 

The trio spent the day heading further inland, Hanzo and Mccree resting in shifts before traveling further to Adamson’s location. Mccree took his time when Hanzo was sleeping in the shade of stout Joshua trees, to look over maps and figure out their distance to the town on the envelope. The location that the gentleman with the snapped neck had said, Copperfield, was different then what was mentioned within the telegram. It was likely that Copperfield was were the telegram was sent, and the location, Weyland, was were Adamson was going to be meeting up with his business partner, look into selling cattle head, or purchasing. 

Mccree doubted that Adamson would do much purchasing. It wasn’t in the man’s trade as of late to spend money on anyone but himself and his men’s payroll. Weyland was more than likely a cattle town then, Mccree deduced. There was a train line that went from Copperfield further nother, and Weyland was one of the stops. Adamson would be able to take the train, shaving off two days of travel. Mccree however would have to take the long way. 

He sighed and ran a hand down his face. There were shortcuts they could take, but they’d need to stop for provisions before taking them. Copperfield was the nearest location for trade-

“You look distressed.” Hanzo gazed across to Mccree, awake and slowly sitting up. 

“Juss thinkin’.” Mccree gave a blind gesture to the map before he began to fold it back up. 

“I see…” Hanzo hummed, falling silent as the worn paper was shuffled back into place and stashed. 

“How you gettin’ along?” Mccree asked, sitting himself near Hanzo and receiving a shrug. 

“My body is stiff, but I am healing well.” 

“S’good to hear… Look’s like yer bruises are goin’ down pretty well too,” Mccree reached up to thumb the bruising under Hanzo’s black eye, but stopped when the man naturally leaned away. Mccree feigned as though he was reaching up to tip back his hat and cleared his throat. “I’d discuss where we’re goin’ but don’t want no pryin’ ears to hear.”

Hanzo glanced to the lump that was Willis sleeping and nodded. Silence settled down and Mccree, who was quite tired of silence spoke up, “So, heard Ewars’s boys jumped you.”

“It was an unfair match, however- I was out witted- a fool.” Hanzo glared down at his leather boots.

“A fool? Fer having eight men come after you and not walk away without a scrape? Naw, that don’t make you a fool!”

“My whole life- I have trained for such combat. However, I lacked the proper….” Hanzo waved his hand, searching for a word.

“Insight?” mccree offered.

“Yes. I should have at least brought my wakizashi along.”

“A.. what now?”

Hanzo smiled and reached behind his back, pulling a smart looking blade out that was the length of his forearm, the hilt crossed in well worn leather. Mccree gave a low whistle of appreciation. “It’s a beautiful blade… I ain’t seen anything like it.”

“I brought it with me from my home country.” Hanzo’s chest puffed slightly at the compliment and he affectionately thumbed the blade’s side. 

“Might I?” Mccree asked, noting the way Hanzo held the blade as he passed it to Mccree. “Most knives here have two sides, this’s got one.”

“Traditionally the wakizashi is used for a ceremony death, and is always kept on a samurai..”

“Is that what you are?” Mccree smiled and handed back the blade, Hanzo taking it back with a frown.

“No,” He replied softly.

“Alright then… what is a samurai, and uh- what do you do in this ‘ceremony of death’. Is that like a weddin’ where the groom man swears t’ give up his life fer his woman?”

The smile returned to Hanzo’s lips and Mccree’s heart gave a small leap, glad he was such an idiot when it came to the other’s culture. It seemed to amuse him to have to explain, even though it was clear he lacked the exact English words to do so properly. He figured San Francisco must not have talked much about his home land.

“No, it is not like like- though I do find your ‘broom hoping’ to be an amusing ceremony.”

Mccree gave a soft chuckle, “So you seen that then? Kinda silly little thing.”

“Indeed,” Hanzo nodded. “A samurai is-- was a great warrior of Nip- erm.. Japan.”

“S’okay t’ call yer home by yer own name.” He nudged Hanzo’s shoulder with his own. “And what d’ya mean by was?”

“The Samurai were mighty warriors, those who protected their lords and masters- who reigned in fairness and beauty. However, when I left, war was within my country.”

“M’sorry t’ hear that…” Mccree knew the feeling well, sympathising with the man through his own experience of the Civil War.

“There were those who thought that the Samurai was no longer needed. That their protection was….”

Again, Hanzo thought on the words and Mccree waited patiently, only offering when the man grew frustrated, “More like bein’ a slave?”

“But they were not slaves.. It is difficult to explain!”

“I understand… go on.”

“So they fought- the people against one another.” 

“Is that why you left?” Mccree’s brows furrowed up.

“No.”

His brows furrowed, shooting up in surprise, ready to ask more questions on the matter, but the way Hanzo drew his knees up to his chest and glared at the ground, it was clear that he did not wish to discuss it further. “War… can be tough… I’m sorry t’ hear that about your home Hanzo.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo replied with little emotion. 

Another beat of damned silence passed as Mccree searched for something else to ask just so he could hear the man talk again. It was an odd sensation, just to be thrilled by another’s voice and feel the hunger pull at his chest- starving to know more about the other and never satisfied. 

“So… what was the wahka..wahkashee? uh not-marriage knife used for?”

“Wakashi,” his lips relaxed from the thin line they had drawn into. “Weapons are to be removed when entering a house- but the Wakshi, stays on. You sleep with it under your pillow, and should it be needed, Seppuku.”

“What is seppuku?” Mccree tilted his head and watched as Hanzo slowly removed the blade once again.

“It is honor in death,” Hanzo turned the blade in towards himself, “To die, before the other could have you, or should you shame your family.” There was hesitation and Hanzo closed his eyes, the blade just barely pressed into his abdomen, then he slowly drew a line across his shirt, and stopped.

“That don’t kill a man quickly,” Mccree remarked quietly, having seen his share of men with guttural wounds, laying in the dirt with gaping mouths that plead for death.

“No.” There was a slight shake to Hanzo’s hands as he slipped the blade back into its sheath and although he held a regal posture, there was a look of defeat upon his face.

“Honor sure is a big deal over there, ain’t it?” Mccree rubbed at the back of his neck, wishing he hadn’t asked about the blade after all. 

“It is everything.”

“Well, yer ah… Honoring mighty fine then- what with keepin’ with me and all.” He tried to sooth the conversation, praising Hanzo with what he seemed to hold so high, but the man simply scoffed. “So if you use a knife then- can you shoot a gun?”

“Of course. Everyone can,” Hanzo rolled his eyes.

“Maybe, some are certainly better than others. I’d like t’ see you shoot real soon.”

Hanzo’s brow raised, “Why is that?”

“Well,” Mccree stretched his arms up, sighing as his back gave a few pops. “If we’re gonna be stickin’ together, it’d be good to know yer skills, so we can balance each other.”

“I suppose you are correct…” Hanzo hummed in thought, “I admit- I’m much better with a bow than a gun.”

“A bow?”

“Yes, the… long object where you pull back,” Hanzo gestured as though he were pulling back on the bowstring, looking a bit helpless as Mccree began to laugh.

“Sorry- I know what a bow is, I was just surprised that ya knew how t’ use it!” Mccree leaned forward to grin at Hanzo. The man gave a frustrated huff.

“Do not mock me.”

“I’m sorry pardner! Didn’t mean t’.” He watched as Hanzo grumbled, blowing the hair that hung in front of his eyes out of the way only to have it fall immediately back into place. He glared at the inky strands as though they caused him great offense by that action. “Here-” Mccree pulled off his right handed glove and reached up slowly, giving Hanzo time to move away if he wished. 

With gentle fingers Mccree tucked the strands of loose hair behind Hanzo’s seemingly sun kissed and trailed the tips down the edge of his jaw softly. Damn, that man’s hair was beautiful, even as it hung in wet clumps down his back. It shone like liquid ink, little strands of pure silver within the mixture. Mccree dared to meet the man’s wide eyes, feeling himself suck in a breath. How had he been able to be so upset with the man? Hanzo was stunning, eyes wide like a doe and lips dry but seeming plump as though they begged for a kiss to be stolen.

“W-Would you like to see it?!’ Hanzo stood suddenly, looking around as though he feared someone might have seen.

“See what?” Mccree leaned back on his hands, an easy grin staying in place.

“My bow.”

“Yer bow? Well sure,” He nodded, watching as Hanzo all but ran over to the black mare and retrieved two long leather wrapped items. This time Mccree noticed the red to his face that most certainly was not a sunburn. The man had blushed- and the gunslinger found it down right adorable. 

Hanzo knelt in front of Mccree when he returned, resting both objects across his lap and unwrapping them. The first was a quiver, an assortment of arrows packed within. The quiver itself was of fine craftsmanship; dark polished wood with a hollowing in the center to show the arrow shafts. Around the quiver were thick fading yellow cords tied into intricate knots Mccree had seen but a few times in asian arts within cities. On the side of the quiver where there were strange carvings- not done by the original creator of the quiver, matching in depth and design- but ones carved out with another knife, deep and shaky.

Hanzo allowed Mccree to take his time to look at the piece, eyes fixated on the man as he turned it over and nodded before accepting the bow. Mccree had seen many indian bows before, even shot a few, but they were nothing in comparison to what he now held. Instead of a thin branch used it was another carved and bent intricate piece. A dragon with open maws was carved into the side with careful details, and on each side of the wood, steel plates were fixed to wear to string would be drawn. Mccree lifted the piece and held it out like he would should he be using it. “It’s mighty heavy.”

Hanzo nodded, and with a smirk he leaned forward, took the bow and flipped it the other way.

“May I?” Mccree chuckled, fingering the thick bow string. With another nod from Hanzo Mccree attempted to draw back, only making what he assumed might be a third of the bows full draw before his arms began to shake. “Hell! That’s one beast! ‘N you can actually fire that thing?”

“I would take my bow against your guns any day.” Hanzo said with pride, taking the bow back and drawing it back with ease, practically preening under Mccree’s gawk of amazement. 

“No wonder yer so large.” Mccree gave a low whistle. 

“Large?” Hanzo frowned and glared as he eased the tension on the bow and directed the scowl at Mccree.

“Yer muscles- it’s a good thing!” Mccree waved his hands defensively, quickly noteing to be more careful of phrasing the other’s body. “I like ‘em. Strong as a bull- Damned fine to look at.”

The scowl didn’t disappear completely from Hanzo’s face, but it softened into more of confusion than anything else. “You… have very strange ways of saying things.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I had come to understand ‘large’ with a person to be tall, or fat.” Hanzo began to repack the bow and arrows as he spoke, quick but methodical.

“Well, it is. It’s rude to call a lady fat, so’s we use large… Large like.. Big - so big muscles?” Mccree studied said big muscles without shame and Hanzo smirked once again.

“Well, then - “ He stood, regarded Mccree with that damnable look and said in a low voice that rumbled from his chest, “I assure you, I am large in all the right places.” with that he turned back and strode with a smooth swagger to his horse. 

Mccree fought composure as the images of Hanzo naked flooded into his mind, face burning as he tugged down the brim of hit hat. He didn’t know what to say, shocked the man said something so suggestive. There was no denying the underlying message to his words-not from the way Hanzo spoke and grinned like he was the devil. Later, Mccree promised, he’d do something to even the field- stun Hanzo into a stupor and make him blush something awful. 

“I would ask you for lessons in shooting a gun- however, I have seen your aim.”

Sweet, then slapping. Mccree was beginning to wonder if that was Hanzo’s way.

“What you mean by that? When you seen me shoot?”

“The saloon- in Faircross.” Hanzo pulled out his bed roll and returned to small fire by Mccree.

“The… Oh!” Mccree had nearly forgotten the incident with the riled drunk man who drew on him. He had shot him in the arm, not wishing to kill the man, “I remember.”

Hanzo nodded,” You missed his chest completely, which is surprising given your proximity. A shot to the heart or head would have been easy, but even with your quick draw you should have at least hit him within his gut.”

“Who said that I was aimin’ to kill.”

The man’s brow arched, and Mccree took satisfaction in that. “Is that not the point of a quick draw?”

“Usually- but I ain’t like t’ kill more than necessary. I was aiming fer his arm.”

The archer looked mildly impressed then schooled his expression, “I see, then perhaps you can show me your shooting skills as well.”

“Will do darlin’,” Mccree gave another stretch and stood for his own bed roll. It was only later that night Mccree thought of a clever comeback, far too late to have any effect. He grumbled in frustration and closed his eyes once more. 

 

Morning's light began to break, a sliver of light along the horizon. Like a rooster, Mccree rose with the light. Across from the ashes of their camp’s fire, Hanzo stirred as well. The way the man moved interested Mccree and he thought to observe his waking another day. For now, he rekindled the fire, pulled out his small iron cast pot and began to boil water for strong coffee. 

“Mornin’,” Mccree nodded to the assassin, who already looked wide awake- the dark rings that became more pronounced with the bringing of day showed however, Hanzo’s sleep must have been a light one. Hanzo nodded back, glancing to the pot, “Coffee’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

With a mear grunt Hanzo rose, packed his bedding in the way that Mccree had shown him, and walked the short distance over to the small babbling creek, stooping to wash his face and run wet fingers through his hair. Once back at the camp he traded his bed roll for a small leather hard case- unpacking a small mirror and shaving set. 

“Hell- you do all this everyday?” Mccree had been watching the man while the water boiled. Currently he was tying his hair up into a smooth ponytail and it was one helluava sight.

“Yes, when I am able.”

“No wonder yer so damn fine t’ look at,” Mccree gave a low hum, the man smirking as he preened under the compliment. 

“Doin’ more gussying than most women I seen,” Willis was awake, groaning as he sat up, still bound at the hands and ankles. 

“Hush yer mouth,” Mccree frowned, tossing a pebble at their captive and looking back to find Hanzo packing his kit, a stern look crossing his features.

“What’s fer breakfast,” Willis looked from his rock over to the fire. “I’m hungry something fierce.”

“There is nothing for you here,” Hanzo answered back, fixing the prisoner with a cold gaze.

“Because I made a joke ‘bout you?!” Willis winned, “come on- it was just some friendly poke!”

Hanzo had drawn the knife from his back and testing the sharp edge, “I have killed men for lesser insults.”

“Yeah? Why ain’t you killed me then!” 

“Is that an invitation?” Hanzo chuckled darkly, smiling like a vulture knowing it’s prey was about to become dinner.

“Whooooa now-” Mccree interjected, “Ain’t either of us gonna be the one t’ do you in- yet- and that yet depends on you.” The gunslinger spoke as he poured dark brown liquid into a tin cup. 

“See, we’re gonna turn you loose when we ride out, that means you can go home or t’ wherever you damn well please.” He continued on, raising the coffee to his lips to take a scalding gulp. “BUT, if you turn ‘round and blabber to the law what happened t’ you? Yer a dead man. Not only that but a painfully dead man. See- my friend Hanzo, he’s from Japan- you heard of them Samurai folks?”

Willis gave a dry swallow and eyed up Hanzo.

“Hanzo’s one of them. You heard the stories, how they’re more ferocious then the indians? How they know eight ways t’ gut ya sideways?” Mccree was making things up on the fly. He knew very little about the Samurai, but Japan had been in deplomany with the American’s long enough for rumors to start- but not enough for them to see them as more than savages. “He’ll track you better n’ a bloodhound.” 

Mccree took some joy in watching Willis pale, knowing the foolish book keeper believed the tall tales and that his silence would earn them at least a few days free from any sort of law trying to catch up to them.

 

When camp was broken down, Mccree and Hanzo left Willis with a small bundle of jerky- the remaining of Mccree’s supply- as well as a water skin. They cut the man’s bonds and rode of in the direction that would be out of the man’s eyesight before b-lining for the actual direction they intended and slowing to a medium canter. They had no reason to tired their horses needlessly.

The pair rode through mild terrain in relative silence. It was becoming apparent to Mccree that Hanzo wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He didn’t speak unless he was spoken to or there was a matter of urgency. The silence was comfortable, but it was odd to be riding with someone who he actually liked and not partake in at least a bit of conversation. 

The two rode side by side when they could, and every glance over Hanzo wore the same schooled hard expression. “How you holdin’ up there pard’ner?” 

Hanzo blinked as though the break in silence had spooked him moderately from his thoughts, “I am… well. Thank you.”

“What’s with that look then?”

Hanzo gave a single gruff laugh, “I have been asked that often.”

“Some kind o’ killer face then? Bet you made yer mama cry when you came out of the womb.”

“I do not recall the day I was born.”

“Fer heaven’s sake’-” Mccree began with exasperation, catching just the slightest lift to Hanzo’s lips before it was schooled down into the emotionless scowl. “Ooh I see what yer doin’. Yer pulling my leg! Didn’t know you had a bone of humor in ya Hanzo.”

“You hardly know me.” Hanzo allowed himself a small smile of pride, clearly pleased that his jest towards Mccree had gone over the way it did. 

“That’s true, but I’d like t’.” Mccree flashed a smile at Hanzo who in turn said nothing. “So- What you thinkin’ about? Looks like yer tied up in yer head.”

Hanzo gazed ahead, “The land seems endless.”

“It’s a mighty big country.”

The man nodded, “It is… difficult for me to stay focused in such a land.”

Mccree understood. Hanzo didn’t strike him as the type of person to ride over big lands, but to stick to cities with shadows and rooftops to hide among. “You get out of the city much?”

“No.”

“I see… well city-slicker! We’ll make a cow-poke out of you in now time!” Mccree gave a hoot and leaned over to slap the man’s shoulder. 

“Do you often ride through open lands?” Hanzo tilted his head with curiosity. 

“Shore do,” Mccree tipped back the brim of his hat, “can’t say I’ve known anything but the wide open spaces. Somethin’ like Faircross with its cobbled roads n’ big buildings- I ain’t used to that get up.”

“You have never been to San Francisco then?” It was more of a comment then a question, but Mccree nodded.

“I ain’t. Heard enough about it to know I probably wouldn’t fit it.”

“I would not say that,” Hanzo’s brows raised. “There were many filthy miners or cowboys who were eager to spend their money on a strong drink or a warm hole.” 

“Guess that makes sense with the gold rush n’ all.”

“There were many men of business as well however. People from ‘all-walks-of-life’.”

Mccree looked at Hanzo curiously, “that said a lot down there?”

“Yes, we did not discriminate.”

“We?” Mccree asked when Hanzo wrinkled up his nose.

“Yes, however, I enjoy the way I knew where I was- from the buildings.”

“Guess that makes sense. When yer not used to the land or how travelin’ by horse goes.” The gunslinger pulled out the remains of his tobacco and rolled two sticks, tapping the ends of the paper on the sadel’s horn to seal them then handed one over to Hanzo. 

“This helps pass the time.”

Hanzo accepted the rolled tobacco with a nod, “While your choice in tobacco is left to be desired, I thank you.”

“Can’t all be rich tenderfoots,” Mccree grinned, striking a match with his thumb and cupping it as Hanzo leaned over. The man bent down, gaze lifting up to meet Mccree’s for a moment before flicking to the flame. His lips were curled around the cigarillo, holding it firmly for Mccree to light, which he did slowly, his pulse quickening as lips drew around the stick, quickly sucking to draw back the flame and smoke.   
Oh hell. 

Mccree swallowed and moved back to his position, but he found himself rather shaken as he watched Hanzo straighten and tilted back his head letting the smoke ghost out from his smirk. He leaned back in the saddle, hand on the steel horn and Mccree swore he’d never seen someone on a saddle look so provocative before. 

“R-right then,” Mccree cleared his throat and quickly lit his own, burning halfway through it before he even dared to look over at Hanzo. He had a normal riding posture, that of which Mccree was thankful for. Riding would be damned unpleasant with his arousal trapped in his jeans. 

When the sun grew high and hot, Hanzo donned a black hat- similar to Mccree’s stetson but with more of a rounded brim. He couldn’t help the smile that rose to his face along with a small roll of eyes. Hanzo truly was a city-slicker. All the while Mccree wondered at the odds that he would end up riding with such a man. They hadn’t had time to practice shooting, both men agreeing they would prefer to ride without alerting anyone who might be ahead of them, so Mccree still didn’t know if Hanzo was a good shot. It made him nervous to know they were going into a town where a man he was after had just been, and not knowing if he could count on the man who wore his colt buttoned in the holster. 

Like it or not, he was who Mccree was with. When the pair arrived at a wooden sign post reading ‘Copperfield 2 miles’ he heard Hanzo grumble out something about ‘finally’ and he urged his horse into a quicker trot. Mccree couldn’t blame him, his own body tired from the hard riding and his throat in need of a good drink. 

The two miles went quickly, and soon the pair entered the cusps of Copperfield. The town looks like hundreds of others Mccree had seen, all the buildings either one or two stories or false fronts waiting to be built and become another sun bleached front. The dying sun cast against the windows which shone back blood red, bleary and glazed like the drunks that were sure to inhabit the saloon in which they were headed.

“It is filthy,” Hanzo remarked with distaste as they slowed their horses, Mccree leading the way to the bar, leading his horse around a group of fellows swaying with bottles in their hands. He wasn’t sure where they were headed, but he was certain they probably   
didn’t know either. 

“Well, it ain’t no New York, but i’ve seen a helluva lot worse!” He felt his spirits raise at hearing the off tune plunks of a player piano, and found himself grinning along with the laughter he heard. 

“You get us some drinks, I’ll check t’ see if there’s still some rooms.” Hanzo nodded, dismounting after Mccree, slinging his bow over his shoulder.”People bound to be mighty confused if you walk in there with that.”

“I will not leave my weapon unattended in a place such as this.” 

Mccree sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, praying Hanzo wouldn’t be as prickly with the men and woman of this town as he had with Willis. The gunslinger pushed through the double doors and let them fan behind him and Hanzo before he made his way to a desk housing a few books and a woman with a low-cut blouse. She smiled up at Mccree and leaned against the dark wood. 

“Well, hi there sweetheart.” Her brown hair was pulled up in soft springy ringlets that bounced with each movement. “What can I do for ya?”

“Howdy miss, juss checking to see if you have any rooms available,” and as a last minute thought he added, “And possibly a bath house?”

“We sure do! Yer in Copperfield Mister,” She gave a wink as though just saying it’s name was supposed to mean something to Mccree. “I can offer you the best rooms ‘round here, feathered pillows, soaps, or even some company.”  
Mccree rubbed his chin, “How much for two rooms.”

The woman’s brow cocked, “It’s a dollar per room, per night.”

“Thank ya kindly darlin’, put me down- That’s Harrison H-A-R-R-I-S-O-N.” Mccree brought out two silver dollars, and placed them down before the brunette. 

“Thank you kindly Mr. Harrison.” She smiled as she collected the coins, pulling out a key that was tucked into her breast and unlocking the steel lockbox to deposit the coins. “We’ll be seein’ you round.”

Mccree tipped his hat with two fingers and sauntered over to the bar, searching through the smoke filled room until he spotted Hanzo waiting in a far corner with a bottle and two glasses. “What drink you get us?” the chair scrapped against the wood flooring as he pulled it back and plopped down. Hanzo gestured to the tall bottle which Mccree picked up, carmel brown liquor sloshing inside. “Whiskey, man after my own heart.” Mccree popped the cork and poured them both a glass. 

“It is not my preference, however, I recall drinking the last of yours.” Hanzo took a sip, posture straight and regal in his wooden chair. 

“No? What’s yer poison then?” The whiskey wasn’t the best Mccree had ever tasted, but he would never be one to turn his nose up to a drink. The flavor was earthy and warmed his stomach.

“Sake.”

“Sake? I’m assumin’ that’s from Japan?”

“Yes, it is made from rice, and the taste is not cheap like your american whiskey.” 

“I’d love to try it one day.” Mccree poured himself another drink, hanging his hat from his knee and ruffling out his hair which felt all but plastered to his head.

“It is difficult to find it- however when I was in San Francisco, the rare bottle could be purchased for a high price.”

Mccree gave a low whistle, “You know, I ain’t usually the type t’ spend big on liquor but if the occasion arises...” he let the sentence trail off. The two lapsed into silence once more, letting the white noise of the saloon’s activities fill the space between them. 

Their eyes wandered around the partons, and Mccree couldn’t help but think back to their first meeting- well… viewing of each other. Hanzo had looked much more agitated playing poker than he did at the moment, drinking slowly. The gunslinger hoped it had something to do with their shared company, that his own presence made the archer more relaxed. 

By what might have been Hanzo’s fourth glass- the bottle now two thirds of a way finished- his straight-beamed spine relaxed, an arm draped over the back of the chair while his other hand swirled the whiskey in the glass. His stormy gaze was fixated on the woman singing cheekily next to a man plunking away at the piano. They had just began, a small act to draw in more partons as the night wore on and keep them there to spend their money on drinks and game. The small crowd that had gathered in the nearest seats and vacant spots cheered loudly for her as she hiked her skirt up past her knees, displaying fishnets and ruffled bloomers. 

Hanzo scoffed, eyes rolling away as he took another sip. Despite his piqued expression his eyes returned to the singer only moments later. 

“I’m waiting her sweet face to see, while we’re parted I linger in pain! But soon will my heart beat with joy, o’re the sea I’ll be sailing again!” 

Mccree flicked back and forth between watching the performance and watching Hanzo’s gaze. He seemed as though he wanted to ignore the display, yet he couldn’t take his gaze, growing more nostalgic by the second, away. “You got a girl in Japan?”

Hanzo looked over to Mccree with a brow raised. “Hmm?”

“A girl,” Mcree gestured with his cup to the woman singing, “You got one back in Japan?”

Hanzo hummed into his glass, finishing the contents before setting it down and speaking. “Not anymore… no…”

“But you did?” He wasn’t sure if that news was good or bad, and Hanzo was giving little indication of how he should be responding towards the new information. 

“Yes.” Hanzo seemed content to leave it at that, but after Mccree’s prying gaze bore into him he rolled his eyes once again. “It would have been for… the family's honor. The marriage was not my choice.”

“Oh… you were betrothed then?”

“A promise to wed… yes.” 

“Did you want to?” 

Hanzo sighed, turning fully now away from the performance, “No. I did not enjoy the woman… not one bit.”

“Is… that why you came here?” Mccree guessed. 

“No.” The sour expression returned. 

“Well why did you-”

“A card game- perhaps?” Hanzo interrupted, shifting to reach into the leather satchel that hung at his side. He procured a small rectangular wooden box.With the lid pulled from the box came a stack of small well worn tile cards small enough to fit into the palm of one’s hand. Immediately Mccree’s interest piqued and he leaned forward to watch Hanzo shuffle the cards which were smaller than normal face cards and more squared. 

“I will teach you to play.” Eight cards were placed on the table, face up, displaying various drawn pictures; a mountain scene with a red stripe and writing, a back hill, draped vines with a bird, and several sporting different flowers. “The game is called koi-koi.”

“Koi-Koi?”

“Correct?”

Mccree reached over, picking up a card and chuckling at the scene. A small person in a large red rope wore a square box as a hat, held and umbrella and stood by a river. “Do they really dress like this in yer hometown?”

“Not in my village mostly… That clothing is for those who are rich and powerful.”

“I see… Kinda funny lookin’- no offense.”

Hanzo shrugged, a smile playing across his sharp features, “To american’s it would be ‘funny’. When I first arrived I found your clothing to be quiet funny- especially the woman’s dresses.”

“Oh those are a hoot!” Mccree grinned, setting the card down. 

“Some of the skirts are so large, they cannot fit through doors!” Hanzo gave a short laugh and smoothed the remaining cards over in a straight line. Then, with a skilled motion he flipped the end one over, causing the others to follow and turn face up. 

“Is that the game?” Mccree teased, having seen the motion before in other poker games as the dealer shuffled. Mccree’s answer was a pointed look from sharp grey eyes, “Sorry- continue.”

“There are four cards to a set. You are to match your card in a set of two, to gain.”

“Alright, sounds easy enough…” Mccree rubbed his chin, “But I ain’t seein’ two of the same.”

“They are in a set.” Hanzo pulled out the cards that seemed similar- those that shared the same flower, or the four all with autumnal leaves. “You may match with any one of these.” Hanzo continued to explain the rules- which grew more complex that mccree   
initially thought, but he listened like a good student, and was more than grateful when their first three rounds, Hanzo laid down his hand for Mccree to see and explained each turn and purpose. 

“Okay so now is when I’d want to yell ‘koi koi’.”

“Correct, then you must be quick and place your card before me- or I will steal your points.”

“Alright then! Koi koi!” Mccree hooted and slammed down his card, giving a deep character chuckle as he pulled in the match. 

A snort sounded from across the table, and Mccree would have sworn it was from another random person if he didn’t catch Hanzo covering his mouth and clearing his throat- schooling his expression. “You are learning very well.”

“Well, I got one hell of a fine teacher.” Mccree winked, hoping to get some reaction from Hanzo, but the man only frowned.

“You get to play another card.”

“Oh right-” 

The card game passed the time easily, and soon Hanzo was putting away the cards, suggesting that they turn in so that they might get provisions the in the morning and leave. Mccree agreed, stretching and giving a few twists upon standing. “Mighty fun game once you get used to it!”

“It is rather enjoyable.” Hanzo smiled at the small box holding the card before it was replaced in his satchel, “It is also illegal.”

“Illegal?!” Mccree replaced his hat and lead Hanzo through the crowded tables and drunks to the woman selling rooms. 

“Yes. Most card games and gambling are quick to be illegal.”

“I mean… I suppose that’s fair. I’ve seen a lot of fights come from card dealin’. But what do you do to pass the time? Burn off steam?”

Hanzo chuckled at Mccree’s indignation. “We made new cards to play until those are illegal.” He said this as though it were some hilarious secret, and at it’s finish he gave a laugh, smacking Mccree’s chest with the back of his hand. 

Up until that point, Hanzo had shown no signs of the whiskey’s effects, but now that they were walking; Mccree wished he had more time to speak with Hanzo, finding him to be agreeable in his dizzied state. 

“Madam!” Hanzo slapped his hand down on the wooden desk where the woman sized him up, not remotely stirred by any loud of quick actions.

“What can I do you for?” She exchanged looked with Mccree. Her pretty brown eyes asking if this was who was to be occupying the second room he’d purchased. 

“A bath! And-” Hanzo squinted at the small board displaying prices before fishing into his pockets and placing the coins on the surface. “- extra service, from you most talented woman!”

Mccree’s eyes flashed wide and his brow furrowed, but he held his tongue. It was no business of his what the man did with his money or body. 

“You’ll be paying our worker after the completed service, minimum rate stands- she’ll inform you of that upon arrival.” She made to push back the extra dollar Hanzo had placed only to be stopped by his own fervent hand. He leaned in and picked up the coin, placing it in her hand that he turned palm up. 

“-To ensure I get the most talented and requested woman.” 

Hanzo’s look was deadpanned serious, and the woman laughed brightly, pocketing the silver dollar. “Alrighty sir, i’ll be sure to get Eliza for you. She’s busy at the moment, but why don’t we get that bath started for you?”

“Very good, very good.” Hanzo nodded and pushed away from the table to linger until he was called away.

“Hey- now it ain’t no business of mine… but just..” Mccree sighed and leaned in to talk to Hanzo in low tones. “Jus don’t get too crazy a’right?

“Oh Mccree,” Hanzo shook his head like he pitied him, patting at his chest. “You simple man. I will not. Besides, how do you think we will get information and loose our trail here?” 

Mccree gave Hanzo a guffaw and waved his hands, “The hell type of information we want?! Who’s got the biggest tits?”

“Don’t be so vulgar,” A cunning smirk played across Hanzo’s features, his eyes dark. “Who else knows more than anyone else here about the patrons? Who else has seen and touched nearly every man here?” 

A cold shiver ran up Mccree’s spine at the way Hanzo spoke, and it served as a brighter light on who Hanzo was. He was like the shady figures Mccree had seen lurking in shadows, around back alley ways. With their endless information and tricks.  
Hanzo reminded him of his own personal informant that he went to from time to time- the same glimmer in their eyes after revealing secrets no one should know about. They were underworld people, those who delighted in dark dealings and whose code was completely different than a gunslingers. 

What Hanzo had pointed out made a great deal of sense, and Mccree simply hummed, having no further words to give. When he reached his room however, he wished he had said something. His skin itched and crawled and sleeping as it turned out, was going to be difficult to obtain. Every time his eyes closed he saw Hanzo, bare chested, face contorted into something of pleasure huffing and moaning with some god-damned woman. And while the sounds coming from the room next door didn’t help- he eventually banished that image from his head, only to have it replaced by the wild grin he’d seen by the stream, wondering if the woman bathing him now was getting the same grin. 

 

Damnit

Thinking about Hanzo like this was getting him nowhere.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After traveling by one's self for so long, company can take getting used to, but it's not always unpleasant

Mccree woke without realizing he had even fallen asleep. It must have happened sometime between trying to think about all the men he’d killed -to not think of Hanzo- and thinking of Hanzo, mouth curled into a smirk, sitting on top of Mccree, hand wrapped around his cock. 

Two raps on the door made him reach for his gun belt, fastening it around his waist before cautiously opening the door. “Hanzo.” the name was breathed out. He pulled open the wood to allow the man in. He looked incredible; proper and more refined than before yet more appropriately dressed for the day’s ride ahead. Perhaps it was his riding attire and not just the city slicker wear, that Mccree found to be attractive.

“I have gone to the shop.” He shut the door behind Mccree, informing him, eyes watching with an arched brow. Mccree fumbled around, nodding and trying to hide as much of himself from Hanzo as he could. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Well, not everyone ordered a whore to sing ‘em to sleep.” Mccree grumbled out, regretting the words the moment they slipped out. Hanzo said nothing in return, but the air shifted immediately. “We’re gonna hafta make another trip. Used the last of my tobacco on the road.”

“No need,” Hanzo reached into his small bag and pulled out a cardstock carton, printed with red and gold. “I have purchased you good tobacco.”

Mccree cracked a smile, “Hell- thanks. But I like my blend just fine. You keep those.”

Hanzo’s lips turned down as he replaced the box. “I usually do not smoke.”

“That’s good. Ana always said it was a filthy habit that could kill me one day.”

“Who is Ana?” 

Mccree felt more than saw Hanzo’s curious gaze bore into him. “She uh… was like a mother figure. Real good woman who ran with… a group of us back in the day.” His spurs rattled against creaking wood boards as he made way to the wash stand, pouring out clean water and washing his hands and face with the bar of ivory soap, drying with the clean but stained rag nearby. 

“I see.” Hanzo watched Mccree’s reflection, their gaze meeting through glass. “She meant a great deal to you?”

“You could say that.” He cleared his throat and straightened up. “Taught me everything I know that my real ma didn’t. Anyway, let’s get a move on.”

Mccree knew better than to ask about what information Hanzo had gained in the night- that or, he was too weary to ask. It didn’t sit right with him, gaining information from paid lovers. So, the two finished their business in town, tobacco, matches and another box of bullets for Mccree’s gun to practice then they were setting down the dusty road out into open territory.

They passed several riders on the way out, heading at such a pace so they could avoid being caught with other riders, then viering into brush and stunted growth away from any sort of beaten path. 

Within an hour of traveling off the path, they were forced to slow their pace to allow the horses the steeping climb up the mountain’s side. Dawn’s early light cast deep shadows into each crack of earth and bathed their scene in soft orange. The further up they rode, the sweeter the air became, free from the smoke of trains or cowboy filled saloons. The occasional pine or rocky feature jutting upright from the uneven ground provided enough shade to make their travel during the high set sun a bearable one. Mccree was used to such travels, finding delight in watching the sparse wildlife dart from their hiding places or flutter from branch to branch. Hanzo, on the other hand- Mccree released far into their journey having made a point to not look at him (his presence an awkward reminder of images that plagued his mind)- Hanzo was not faring as well. 

“Whoa, let’s hold up here.” Mccree turned the reins and trotted over to the shade of a tall pine. He dismounted, quickly turning to his companion who mumbled out ‘my thanks’ and simply leaned forward in the saddle, rubbing the horses neck. It didn’t make much time for Mccree to think back on the new ranch hands he’d worked with back in the days- raw and refusing to leave their saddles for pride of knowing they simply couldn’t.

He gave a soft chuckle and held out his hand, “Trust me when I say it pardner- this ridin’ is hard on anyone.” Hanzo looked at the hand offered, wrinkled up this nose then sighed, twisting his torso to accept the help. One hand took Hanzo’s while the other wrapped firmly around his middle, and with a swift smooth tug, he helped the archer from his saddle. 

The moment the other’s feet hit the ground he gritted his teeth. “Damn.”

“Take it slow,” Mccree offered, supporting as much as the other man needed as he tested his land legs and worked from being bow-legged. “Ridin’ all night now all day. You must be sore all over.” He tried to joke, with holding his bitter suggestion.

“I did not bed with the workers.” Hanzo gritted out, hand on his back, “We simply talked. There was a man looking for you two days before we arrived.” He took several tender steps forward before stretching more.

“Hell,” Mccree spat. The information gathered did little to help them, however, it was good to know that they were being watched for. “What else did you learn?”

“The man is a bounty hunter who goes by the name of Black star Calahan. A ridiculous name if you ask me.”

A low whistle sounded from Mccree’s lips, “Can’t believe I got someone famous lookin’ fer me. Just about time too.”

“You have a bounty on your head, I gather?”

“Well shore, had one fer years.” 

“And you know this bounty hunter?”

Mccree shrugged, pulling out his fixing and rolling a smoke, “Heard of him. I ain’t too worried.” In truth, Mccree was more worried than he let on. While Black Star Calahan wasn’t the more fearsome of bounty hunters he had earned himself a reputation for being a hard fight and one to shoot someone in the back. He had no shame from the sneak draw, just the desire for the bounty’s money. The fact that he was on the lookout for Mccree meant one of two things.

The first was that Ewars had hired him and possibly others to be on the lookout for Mccree. The second was that there were those who were traveling far distances just for the bounty- meaning it might have increased. The second idea was cow’s shit to Mccree- a complete lack of justice. It had been years since he’d traveled that east, and most of the crimes they had him down for weren’t of his doing! He should have faded from the sheriff's halls but damned glory chasers still sought him down, just to prove they were better than the infamous Deadeye Mccree.

“As you should not,” Hanzo’s words broke through his thoughts. He stood next to the trunk, chest raised and posture tall, “He will have to go through me before he reaches you, and he will not find me so easy of a target.” 

His words were strong, proud and true. Hanzo had every confidence in himself, it showed in the way he carried himself on a daily, the way he watched his surrounding with cold grey eyes. And while Mccree nearly cracked up as the man moaned in pain at sitting on a nearby rock, he appreciated the promise- more than just appreciated it actually. It was damned near charming.

“Thank ye pard’ner…” He took a long drag from the cigarillo and joined Hanzo against the trunk, leaning casually as he watched Hanzo mop the sweat from his forehead.

“How long did it take- for you to become used to such riding?”

Mccree hummed, “Reckon I was born on a horse. Ain’t known no different. There are times though- if I go days on a saddle that I’m sore.”

Hanzo shuddered, “While I do not wish to become used to such a life- perhaps… this is for my benefit? Become less of a - what was the word? Tender foot?”

A small chuckle, “Shore… But you ain’t really a tenderfoot. You can fight mighty fine, know yer way around- can kill… we just gotta get you used to riding. That’s all.” 

“Practice would be good then.”

Mccree caught Hanzo looking back at him from the corner of his eye, and on a guess he returned, “I could always show you- different ways to ride.” He watched Hanzo carefully, inspecting the way his posture changed from haggard to more open, then shifting into something that he could only describe as magnetic. 

“You know much about riding?” Hanzo had definitely eyed him up, and taking that signal Mccree moved away from the tree, tossing down his tobacco, snubbing it under foot and sauntering over to standing in front of Hanzo.

“Oh, I know a few good tricks.” He shrugged his shoulders, flashing the man a cocked grin.

Hanzo scoffed, but the faintest of smiles stayed on his lips, “a mere few? Hardly worthy of strutting about the way you do.”

“But yer watchin’ me ain’t ya?” 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, and the open searching of the man before him stopped. “I watch… yes…” 

“Well, I been watchin’ you too, Hanzo,” Mccree advanced, heart jumping and every inch of him screaming to be cautions- to not spook the wild mustang before him. “And I think I might have a few ideas on how to correct that way you ride.” his fingertips touched the man’s chin, tilting it up softly. And Hell’s bells- his grey eyes flickered between his own brown gaze to his lips. 

It was a moment- and Mccree thought just maybe- then Hanzo reared back by turning his head sharply away from the gentle touch and all the signs that had once showed him as interested in the magnetism between them vanished. A wild horse, quick to scare and run.

“Do not mock me,” He hissed, the venom in his voice cutting through Mccree like a cold blade.

“I-I weren’t - I…” The interaction left Mccree reeling. He had swore Hanzo was leading him on- wanting what was happening and flirting with him. “I’m sorry- I was.. just-” He let out a slow breath, “I can show you a different way t’ ride.. But it’s gonna take you gettin’ used to long ridin’ first.” All suggest was gone leaving his own dry response. He played it as though that’s what they must have been talking about- horse riding…

Their break was shorter than anticipated, and soon they were mounting their steeds and riding off in silence. Camp that night was little better. Hanzo worked around Mccree in silence, looking exhausted not just physically but mentally. The gunslinger was sharp, but Hanzo refused to give on what was weighing on his mind, excusing himself to the first sleep and leaving Mccree to watch. 

He watched through the night before daring a glance at the sleeping man. It wasn’t as though Hanzo was being cruel in his silence, just… distant. It was as though every action had a purpose that left no room for small talk. He was forward driven and yet part of him must have been at odds with something else. There were thousands of things from Hanzo missing his normal routine to him just not knowing the correct words to communicate. Mccree hated using that as an excuse- so far he’d shown himself more than adequate at English! He had no reason to doubt on that ground. 

So then- what was it that made Hanzo so distant? 

In the silence by the light of the fire, tired of thinking Mccree pulled from his bag a worn green died leather book. He flipped through the pages and began to softly read, for he felt it had been far too long since his lips tasted the words he loved and memorised. 

“Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)-” Mccree sucked in a breath as he muttered the words\ and looked over to Hanzo, still beautiful in sleep. “I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,  
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,  
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,  
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,  
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,  
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,  
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.”

When the time had come for Mccree to change shifts with Hanzo he thought it best to call out his name. He’d seen the way Hanzo snapped away before when he was still injured and under the liquors heavy sleep. Today’s riding might have had the same effect, and Mccree wasn’t fond of the idea of a broken wrist or the blade Hanzo slept with pressed against his throat. 

“Hanzo?” silence followed the name and he waited for the man to stir. When nothing happened he called out again, slightly louder, “Hanzo, yer shift pard’ner.”

“Thank you.” The voice came clear, foggy from sleep. Hanzo’s form moved stiffly and he stood, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Sleep well?”

A grunt was his response, so Mccree shrugged, settled into his bedroll and watched Hanzo lace his boots,slip over the chaps, buckle them into place, grab his bow and move to stand at the edge of their camp. There was no need for him to go so far, but Mccree had little energy to argue with the man’s way of watching. If he wanted to be cold- so be it… 

Mccree didn’t really feel that way, but he tried to convince his conscious he did so sleep would come quickly.

 

When dawn began to crest the mountain ridge- earlier than it would touch in the basin- the smell of coffee and cooking meat was the first thing to reach Mccree’s consciousness. It stirred him from his slumber gently, unlike the sudden force he was used to at being on the rode. It was safe feeling, the sounds of the mountain’s inhabitants waking with chirps and whistles filling the crips sweet air. 

Mccree sucked in a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. He stretched beneath his bedding, aware of the feeling of being watched. Such a feeling might have usually caused him to reach for his gun, but his gut told him there was no need. He felt warm and pleasant as he slowly turned towards the heat of a fresh fire. “Mmm.. Mornin’.”

Hanzo sat nearby, dressed for the day and hair pulled up into a neat ponytail. “Good morning.” 

“Smells mighty fine-” He eyed the meat that sizzled and spat on shaved twigs. “S’that rabbit?”

Hanzo gave a small chuckle, “I am not surprised that you would be familiar with game meat.”

“Eat what you can,” He moved to sit up, scrubbing the feeling of sleep from his face then stretching. “How’er leg’s feeling?”

“Nothing that I cannot handle.” 

A good answer, nothing given to require worrying, nothing given to show Hanzo was weak- a guarded answer. Mccree nodded and let the man alone, packing up and fully dressing, following his horses tracks and finding the two grazing near a small trickle of water. There he washed his face, hands and neck, took a long drink from cupped hands then headed back to Hanzo who was drinking from a tin cup.

“Last night-” The japanese man began, his voice slow and thoughtful. Although he didn’t look at Mccree, he knew what Hanzo was about to say directly related him.

“Don’t tell me I was talkin’ in my sleep!” He half joked, picking up a stick of meat and blowing to cool the surface.

“No… But- you read, out loud.”

“Oh- that..” Mccree rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m so sorry about that Hanzo- I swore you were fast asleep. I didn’t mean t’ wake you I swear it won’t happen again.” 

“Quite the opposite.” Hanzo took a slow drink, “It was rather relaxing. The words, were beautifully said.” 

Mccree’s brows shot up and he looked sharply over to Hanzo. That might have been the first kind thing he’d heard the man say. “It didn’t bother you none?”

Hanzo simply shook his head, “Perhaps you might read more today, on our journey?”

With any more surprises, Mccree’s brows would surely fly off his face. “I never took you for a Walt Whitman sort of man....”

“I did not know the poet. However, the way you read…” Hanzo gazed at the fire as though he was considering what words to use. “I liked it…”

“Well shucks!” Mccree grinned, running his hand through his hair. He truly had never thought Hanzo would enjoy poetry, though it pleased him to find a small secret of the mans. “Do you have any poets you liked?”

“Not Americans, no… Yours was the first I have really listened to since coming to America.” 

“That’s a mighty shame. There’s a lot of talents folk out there- those who know just how to express the deepest feelings of the heart.”

“There were several poets that I enjoyed in my home, however,” Hanzo gave a sad smile, “You would not be able to understand the words, and I lack the ability to translate properly.” 

“Maybe someday,” He pointed with his cup, then drained the rest of the searing hot liquid, “Yer a smart man! I’m sure you’ll find the words in no time!”

“Parhaps,” Hanzo smiled behind the lip of his tin cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Golly you guys, I'm horrible at posting chapters! Thank you for your patients and I hope you enjoy!!   
> More to come as the story being to pick up pace!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be adding more tags as the story progresses, I just don't want to give too much away!  
> Also in these notes I'll probably be adding my historical referances or whatever!!   
> Y'ALL I LOVE A GOOD WESTERN AND I'M THRILLED TO BE WRITING THIS FOR YOU! PLEASE ENJOY!


End file.
